Marian Hawke
by Lyrium Flower
Summary: Vivacious, impetuous and opportunistic, Hawke has manoeuvred her way to Hightown and is determined to paint the prim neighbourhood red. But what will it take to turn a hedonistic Jezebel into the Champion of Kirkwall? Drama, friendship, romance, angst - a sweeping tale of love, family and politics in the backdrop of Kirkwall's simmering crises.
1. 00 Testimonies:   Carver

**Foreword**

This is an ambitious project that I could never have sustained without the help and encouragement of two people. My friend and beta, **strangegibbon **whose sense of humour and joie de vivre is as fantastic as her eye for stray commas and wayward punctuation is hawkish; and **Fever Dream** whose poignant insight has been a continuing inspiration.

I must also thank the scores of wonderful writers that populate this forum and fill its pages with such excellence, they are the glittering example that the rest of us strive to follow.

Lastly, I must thank YOU, the reader. We do this for you. To reach out to you, to touch, to evoke with word and metaphor that commonality of experience, feeling and emotion that so infuses us that taking pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) becomes quintessential to the catharsis for which we yearn. We want to tell you our story. Please don't remain silent. Please review. A word, a sentence, a pm - just to let us know, that you're out there, listening.

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to Bioware.

* * *

><p><em><strong>00. Testimonies<br>**_

_**Carver**_

"I loved Bethany. I remember the first time I realised just how much.

We were 10 and Hawke was 14. I never called my older sister by her first name. It was such a pretty name, so feminine and soft – everything that Hawke was not – not if you were her younger brother and watched her spin her wiles. Somehow I could always see through her. Even when I was 10 and she was clutching at the cusp of womanhood. All the kids in the neighbourhood called her by our family name. It wasn't common practice. There were kids like me and Bethany who played tag out by the pastures or drew chalk circles in the dirt outside our home for hopscotch. We were Bethany and Carver and Matt and Lily and then there were the kids that Hawke hung out with. I didn't know all that they got up to when I was 10, but there was something about their gaze, something harsh and predatory, like the time I saw Gale-Barker hit on the Harmans' little servant boy. She didn't know I'd seen her, but I watched her from behind the hay bale where I was hiding.

Jarven was crying, his huge elvish eyes were red and his hands were bloody from taking the blows meant for his face. Gale-Barker's face was scrunched up in determination and she beat the little boy until she ran out of breath. Then she stopped and waited while he heaved himself back to his feet and scampered off toward the Harman farm. She watched him flee with that look in her eye. And it scared me to death.

Gale-Barker was my older sister's best friend. She was a large stout kid with a crop of dirty blonde hair and a permanent scowl; my sister was her opposite, tall, slender, raven and coy. And there was Wilker and Dirk and Wintborne. Last name only kids. They were cruel, they snuck off to the Refuge in the afternoon and stole ale when Barlin wasn't looking. They beat up the other kids for money, for kicks – just because they could. All of them were brutish and crude and they flanked Hawke wherever she went.

That afternoon, I watched my sister's best friend beat up a pauper kid and I knew, much to my sick horror, I just knew that my sister had put her up to it. I turned around and I ran back to the farm as fast as I could.

I stumbled straight into Bethany under the oak at the end of the garden. She'd given up looking for me and she and Lily were stringing blue irises for Mother. I was so happy to see her. I hugged her tight with a desperation I couldn't voice. Bethany was sweet, Bethany was nice, Bethany was good and Hawke was evil.

Growing up half afraid of my sister was not easy but then our lives had been difficult from the start. My earliest memories are so fragmented from all the moving around we did that I can scarcely recall a home before that farm in Lothering. We were always on the run because out of the five people in our family, three of us had magic. It wasn't really Hawke's fault that there was magic in the family, but I couldn't help but feel as if she'd brought it down upon us.

My father was on the run from the Circle and my mother had given up a life of ease and comfort to support him. Both my sisters had magic in their blood. Bethany was timid about hers and her streak was comforting and pretty. When I busted my knee, she could make it stop hurting with a gentle caress. She could coax a flame out of spent coal and on hot summer days she'd dip her hand in water and blow snowflakes in my face. It was a perfect reflection of my twin sister.

My older sister's magic was a reflection of her too.

I was nine years old. We had just moved to Lothering and father had been taken ill for the first time. Mother had rushed him off to Elder Miriam since we couldn't take him to the Chantry. Hawke was supposed to get us into bed but I was being difficult. I loosed a frog under her blanket and when she got into bed it gave her a scare. She tore after me, dragged me to bed and touched my head. I fell asleep instantly.

And I had nightmares. I don't even recall what I dreamt but the residual memory is enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end, even now.

Bethany had an aura about her that lightened the heart and uplifted the spirit but Hawke - being around her was simply unsettling.

I can't really say that everyone felt the way I did about Hawke. Bethany adored her, but then Bethany loved everyone. My mother, I think, shared some of my misgivings. She never said anything but did all she could to rein her in. She would stay up when Hawke was out late. Yell at her when she got into mischief, but Hawke was nothing if not smooth and Mother, I think hesitated – everyone hesitated with her. Sometimes, I think we were all a little afraid of her.

Father battled with malaise for six years before succumbing. There were long periods when he'd be fit and I remember, he spent a lot of time with Hawke before he became too ill. I don't know what they talked about during those sessions but my sister went along enthusiastically enough that I suspected he was teaching her magic.

We were an apostate family. Magic was the elephant in the room, an unspoken secret for much of our childhood. Our parents didn't speak of it in front of us so that we wouldn't grow comfortable talking about it. It was something that no one outside of the five of us could ever learn about – all our lives depended on it. It was the ultimate taboo, the deepest, darkest secret of our family.

I knew my father kept a staff under a loose floorboard in the kitchen, we always had hot water even in the dead of winter and our hearth was never cold. In the evenings, at home, he would show Bethany and Hawke little tricks to keep the unspoken out of sight. Sometimes, he would talk to them about the Fade and Mother and I heard but tried not to listen.

Then, about a year or more before he died, he started taking Hawke and Bethany out for long walks in the woods. I stayed home with Mother and we both knew what was going on but neither of us spoke about it.

After a few months, Bethany stopped going. She didn't say much about what Father taught her but only that she was happy the way things were. She wanted to grow an orchard down by the stream that formed the boundary between our farm and Elder Miriam's stead. I helped her plant the trees.

My other sister had no such plans. She went out with Father diligently every week. When he was too weak to go out, she'd lock herself in the house alone with him for her lessons. Sometimes, I wonder if she hadn't been so persistent, he would've lasted longer. Magic was taxing, it drained him. I could see it in his face every time.

Then Father died in 927 and we were on our own. Beth and I had just turned 14, Hawke was 18 and Mother wanted her to settle down. There were plenty of offers for her. She had been a beautiful child, a precocious girl and as a young woman, she was the fascination of every man in Lothering. She was of average height but slender limbs made her look taller than she was, with the perfect features and dramatic upturned eyes so blue they popped out of her face and though they called it a sultry, ready smile, I knew it to be an ever present sneer.

With Father dead, our mother became even more insecure about the magic and her widowhood. It was very difficult to make ends meet. She struggled with the farm. Bethany's produce garden took up all her time and when I turned 16, I signed up with the militia. I wanted to be a warrior and to ride into battle with glory on a magnificent destrier. I was fascinated by stories of King Maric and Teryn Loghain MacTir was my hero. I think in retrospect, I wanted to distance myself as much as could from magic and apostasy and the ever present shadow of the Circle on our family. Most of all, I wanted to get out of a house full of women.

Bethany was happy for me, though she confided that the idea of war and fighting made her fear for me. Mother was worried about that too, but I think she also just didn't want to let me go. I was the only man left in the house.

Hawke of course was livid. She raged for days, lashing me with that scathing tongue of hers, of how I would bring attention to the family, drag us into public view and all that – but it wasn't as if she had escaped anyone's notice herself.

My sister loved attention. She loved being in the centre of it – no matter how much she protested otherwise. Why else would she work tables at Barlin's every night, casting her glamour on every wandering merchant through town. Why else would she bleach out the raven hair that was a Hawke family trait and colour it a flaxen gold or rouge her lips and cheeks to the offence of every decent, chantry-going matron in town and the adoration of every adolescent. She did it because no one else would dare. Lothering was a small village in the deep south, and the fashionable salons of Val Royeaux where it was rumoured the ladies did such things were fantastic stories from another world altogether – a world my sister hoped one day to grasp.

The truth is she revelled in the spotlight, but only as long as it was firmly trained on her."

- _Extract from the testimony of Knight-Sergeant Carver Hawke,_

_Reproduced with permission from the notes of Chantry Seeker Cassandra._

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	2. 01 A Bitter Pill

**Author's Note**

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, **strangegibbon** whose irreverence is an enduring delight; **Fever Dream** for the invaluable advice and to everyone who reviewed, alerted and/or favourited.

Please click that little yellow bubble at the end and share your thoughts. Favourite parts, hopes, speculation, anything at all.

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware_._**

The story is rated T but on occasion it may trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong>Full Summary<strong>

From modest beginnings as a destitute refugee in the City of Chains, Marian Hawke has manoeuvred and manipulated her way into wealth and status; clever, vivacious and as opportunistic as she is desirable, Hawke is the newest resident of Hightown and determined to paint the prim neighbourhood red.

The years following the Deep Roads expedition have seen Hawke prosper steadily and now catapulted into wealth beyond expectation, Marian, with best friend Isabela is having the time of her life - parties in the evenings, paramours at night, shopping in the mornings and the occasional adventure in the afternoon. But fortune comes at a price; money does not buy happiness and sex does not buy love. When she finally manages to seduce a long-time mark, the triumph is followed on the heels by a bitter rejection.

Will Hawke ever come to terms with the realisation that she may have lost the only man for whom she ever felt more than a transient emotion? What will it take to turn a hedonistic Jezebel into the Champion of Kirkwall?

* * *

><p><em><strong>1<strong>__.__** A Bitter Pill**_

Marian Hawke sauntered through the vestibule of _The Blooming Rose_ and paused at the threshold of the main lounge. The anteroom was a sprawl of opulence; the air heavy with incense, alcohol and tobacco and the dulcet tones of a zither nearly drowned beneath the din of conversation. Well-heeled denizens of Hightown lounged decadently upon garishly appointed furnishings, interspersed with Madam Lusine's glittering attractions or the occasional sight of a familiar face, not quite delighted to have been recognised.

As expected, people took note and a ripple of attention followed in her wake as she sashayed down to the bar. She was a striking woman – slender, graceful and enigmatic, and, as many women of beauty tend to be, well aware of her charisma.

"Ah the Blooming Rose! Where people come... and then go. I think you managed to send off at least a few in a hurry."

Hawke chuckled softly and drew the arm around her friend's waist tighter still, pressing the line of their bodies together. She brushed her lips across a tan cheek and winked, grinning wickedly. A little display that captured the rapt attention of a mostly male audience, as intended.

"Wine, Quintus. Get us thoroughly drunk, will you!" She lilted, eyes not leaving her companion's face as they continued to flicker with amusement.

"Don't look now, but the crabby old witch is heading this way with a murderous glare. You stole all her business –everyone is distracted by you."

Hawke snickered and threw one coy glance over her shoulder at the advancing Madam Lusine.

"Let's give her something to really bristle about." With that, she wrapped both arms around Isabela's waist, tangling her fingers in the laces of her friend's black corset and pressed her lips onto her mouth.

Never one to be outmatched, Isabela seized her artfully arranged raven hair and deepened the sultry kiss, adding to the exhibition her own dramatically sensuous moans.

"Well, if it isn't Serah Hawke. Can I get you ladies a room?"

Marian broke free first, drawing a deep breath and wiping her lower lip with a fingertip, her dark blue eyes locked into Isabela's brown gaze for an additional moment before she gave the proprietor her attention.

"Madam Lusine, how well you look. Is that Elegant's new line of rouge? It's most becoming," Hawke purred, resting her cheek against Isabela's.

The older woman scowled. She appreciated the implication that she shopped in Lowtown even less than the disruption.

"What will it be tonight?" She continued tersely, swallowing the insult with some effort.

Hawke pulled away from her friend so they could exchange a look. "What do you say?"

"I feel a hankering for someone lanky! What do you say Hawke? Taut muscles, a touch of broodiness, maybe some cold insolence." She said pointedly, the corners of her mouth curling in a smirk.

It was a harmless and oft-repeated jibe but the sudden tightness of posture and the look that flashed across perfectly schooled features was not. Isabela had no reason to doubt her friend's desire for lustful revelry was prompted by more than wanton abandon, but if there was more to it that night then she had acquired a promising clue to be followed up later.

"You haven't cheated him out of nearly enough coins yet to find him here, Isabela." Hawke rejoined smoothly without skipping a beat. "Besides there are more cheerful delights to be had here," She was thinking of the charming elf from her first visit to the establishment. "Madam Lusine?"

It was not often that the gentleman's club had occasion to entertain female patrons, yet these two were a frequent but no less fascinating departure from the norm and they held the room's attention as they browsed through the _Rose's_ better selection. Once Isabela had decided on a suitably athletic male, Madam Lusine ushered them into one of the entertaining rooms on the mezzanine.

Two decadent hours later, flush with liquor, they stumbled outside the establishment, laughing and clutching each other for support.

"That did not just happen!" Marian exclaimed somewhere between laughing too hard and trying to breathe.

"Who would've thought that old bat had a sense of humour." Isabela shook her head, bronze earrings jangling noisily; she paused to inhale and leaned against the wall to steady herself. "That was hilarious! I can't wait to tell Varric about your bad girl special!"

"I cannot believe she recognised me!" Hawke heaved as she struggled to keep herself from throwing up. "I think I am going to be sick!"

"Do you suppose she knows Sebastian?" Isabela continued, rubbing her friend's back, "Just lean back a moment, it'll be fine."

"Oh Maker's breath, I hope not! He'll never look at me the same again and Mother will be heartbroken, she's already imagining what our babies will look like." Marian looked as if she couldn't decide whether to be stricken or delighted.

"When did your mother run into him?" Isabela grinned, salivating at the prospect of more juicy gossip.

"Last week. I came home from the market and there he was, all suited up-gleaming like a new sovereign and Mother has talked of nothing else."

Isabela gave a renewed spurt of laughter, "Really? What did he want?"

"I can't imagine. All we talked about was the dog."

"You're serious?" Isabela looked genuinely surprised.

"Cross my heart- I think he congratulated him on his choice of master." Marian looked quite pleased with herself.

Isabela chuckled. "He likes you."

"He's a Chantry boy! I doubt he ever removes that chastity belt." She protested, the denial belied by an ever growing smile.

The quip made Isabela burst into another shrill cacophony of mirth that echoed in the empty street.

"If I had Andraste's head between my legs, I doubt I'd be too pressed to remove it."

Hawke stared wide-eyed at her friend for the sacrilege and then snickered even harder, pressing a palm over her mouth to muffle her hysterics. "Anders has his moments when he's not busy feeling sorry for himself."

"5 sovereigns to you, if you get into his holy greaves first." Isabela challenged, eyes gleaming at the prospect.

Marian had the grace to look scandalised for a moment before the spark lit in her eyes and a tacit acceptance was exchanged.

"I have something to show you back at the Estate, come home with me." She caught Isabela's arm and curled her hand around the elbow to tug her along.

"What if that bilge rat rents out my room!"

"The night is still young," Marian countered, pulling her along eagerly, singular of purpose once her mind was settled. "Besides, I promise, if you stay Mother will hate you no less in the morning!"

Half an hour and one diversion later, in which Hawke divested herself of dinner behind some unfortunate merchant's shrub, they reached the stoop of the Hawke Estate, still snickering uncontrollably and several sheets to the wind. When no amount of effort coaxed her key into the lock, Isabela snatched it from Hawke and opened the door to let them in.

"The coast is clear." She announced, craning her neck to reconnoitre the main hall while Hawke struggled to remove her soiled boots.

"Hello dog, and don't bark."

The great Mabari sprawled before the hearth, stared quizzically at the two drunken women that crept, stumbled and giggled their way into the library.

"So, you dragged me here for a reason - out with it."

Isabela sank into an over-sized leather chair, throwing one leg over the armrest while Marian retrieved a pair of goblets from the mantelpiece and stoked a fire in the grate. "Here," she handed a goblet to her confidante.

"What's this Hawke? More wine? You're going to pass out, I'm telling you – you're a terrible lightweight."

"I am not!" She protested, gingerly drawing a large bottle wrapped in twine from a basket on her desk. "Behold." She declared, presenting it with a dramatic flourish.

"No!" Isabela was no longer reclined as surprise and confusion raced across her face. "Aggregio!" She examined the label amazed. "Tell me you didn't!"

Hawke grinned, smug as a magpie, and continued, "Fenris says all Tevinter wine is made from the blood and tears of slaves. I do hope he was exaggerating."

"You stole his wine?"

"Shall I pour for you?" With a decisive pop, the cork came off, filling their senses with a subtle, full-bodied aroma.

Isabela held out her goblet, "He will kill you for this, you realise? With that hand thing he does. I'd put a wager on it."

"I didn't steal anything." Hawke filled both their chalices and took a sip, savouring the delicate bouquet. "Exquisite."

"If you didn't steal it..." Isabela was not to be distracted.

Marian held her friend's gaze in silence, drawing out the moment – building anticipation as any good gossip would but there were hints betrayed by her otherwise smooth mask – the tiniest of tells, like the subtle twitch in her smile or the slight waver in her voice that revealed themselves to a sharp observer.

"He brought it himself."

Isabela arched a thinly groomed brow.

"Last night. He came to apologise." Hawke smiled gamely, satisfied now that she had her friend's rapt attention. "For running off in a snit after that Hadriana affair - you were there." She took another draught and swilled the remainder around in the cup, waiting for another prompt.

Isabela had leaned forward now, completely enraptured by the information. "And?"

"And," Hawke grinned triumphantly, swooping in for the punch line, "you owe me a lot of sovereigns."

"You slept with him!" Isabela's shriek could have shattered glass.

"Quiet!" She chastised half-heartedly; her face beaming. "Mother's just up the stairs."

Isabela leaned back again, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. "You little vixen! So how was it?"

"Fantastic." Marian supplied easily, raising her glass to the memory. "Exhilarating – everything I could have imagined." It was all true, the sudden rush of blood at the memory confirmed it.

Isabela looked impressed and pleased. "What happened afterwards?"

"Afterwards, he left." She said casually but did not meet her friend's eye, reaching instead to sip from her wine. This tiniest falter in her mask was noted at once.

"Will you do it again?" Isabela pressed, sensing something unresolved behind her friend's serene exterior.

Marian flinched at the probe and tensed, fingering some porcelain bauble on the mantlepiece. After a rallying moment, she looked up and smiled, shrugging with perfect indifference – the 'perhaps, perhaps not' not needing to be said.

"Then he is fair game?" Her friend's smile was wide, pleased at the prospect of renewing the pursuit and yet tentative.

A cascade of unsavoury feelings to which she had fancied herself immune swept over her, the reaction so unfamiliar and baffling that it took her a while to realise that the maelstrom was only her heart in revolt.

As the turmoil receded, anger rose in its wake – at that night, at him but most of all at herself – at her own moment of weakness, for that embarrassing instant in which she was her mother, throwing caution to the wind for a man. It was pathetic and disgust mixed into the dismay she already felt.

She snatched up her goblet and there reflecting in the polished silver was her face, looking unravelled and far too much like Leandra. A little more wine and a comfortable numbness settled over her.

"Of course." She said, as if the very question was preposterous and met Isabela's eyes, clamping down hard on her heart's absurd fit of rebellion.

With a nonchalant little wave of her hand, she dismissed the sentimentality as beneath her.

It was a fairly short walk from her home to the end of the marketplace where the stairs began their winding descent into Lowtown and Hawke insisted on accompanying Isabela on her way back to the Hanged Man, at least as far as this point.

"So, I'm thinking," began Isabela as they reached the edge of the stairs and paused to say goodbye. "Aveline will want to re-do that whole patrol-date thing seeing how we were sidetracked yesterday what with Fenris being ambushed."

Hawke nodded, "I intended to insist upon it, if she did not."

"Good! Don't leave me out of it. I'd hate to miss seeing her make a fool of herself."

"You are such a hopeless romantic." Hawke laughed.

"Oh, don't I know it."

There was a moment of silence as they finished laughing and allowed the conversation to end.

"Tonight was a fun diversion; still on for Harlan's rave at the docks tomorrow, with Varric?" Isabela added, and then after a brief instant of hesitation, reached to embrace the other woman.

Hawke responded in kind, replying, "Never miss it. I told you there's fun to be had in Hightown."

"Indeed." She admitted and then quite unexpectedly, met Hawke's lips in a kiss.

It was cautious at first and when Hawke did not pull away, she let it linger. It was hardly the first time they had shared something sensuous, but there was tenderness in it that was out of character.

"Goodnight Marian." Isabela whispered, pulling away and patting her cheek softly. "Don't pass out on the street now."

With that, she turned around and left, leaving Hawke touched and a little surprised, watching her descend until she was obscured from view. Her first instinct would have been to check if there was someone around that would have been offended, for Isabela was as fond of ruffling sensibilities as she, but it was far too late in the night to hope for polite audience. As she turned around to leave, the only conclusion she could draw was that they had had far too much drink and that it was just as well that she had resolved on a walk before bed to allow her head to clear a little.

In fact, in the spirit of things, she decided to take the long way home, through a few blocks of the smaller and less affluent homes on the west side. It would give her some more time to dwell upon the mortifying and disastrous demise of her most recent liaison.

It had started out innocently enough. When she had first met the runaway Tevinter slave, she had been instantly captivated by him. It was not simply because he was pleasing to look upon, which he was, in a deliciously lean, battle-hardened way but because he owned whatever room he entered, and instantly commanded attention. That he was oblivious of this only made it more attractive. But there was more. He didn't fawn upon her like others, in fact they could hardly get along - she always had the sense during their frequent arguments that he was a hair's breadth from running her through with his sword - but it made the challenge of counting him a conquest to her charms all the more enticing.

Marian was accustomed to having her way. She had learned early in life that she was beautiful and dangerous and believed the two gifts in tandem entitled her to whatever she pleased. That he was mostly indifferent to the former and hardly tolerated the latter had necessitated a more subtle approach, but one which had been painfully slow to mature. Three years she had played this game with him, riling him enough to stir his passion and bring the simmering tension between them to boil, then appeasing his anger with the right platitudes or coyly deflecting it with her wit. Sometimes, he rewarded her with a slight curving of his mouth or even a riposte of his own. She had grown to cherish these because each represented a tiny increment of progress toward her goal, or so she believed.

Now at long last, the achievement was hers but at its heels followed another, one far less gratifying. There had been plenty of trysts abandoned after a single night in her time. In many cases these partings were mutual and in others, someone had been left behind to pick up the pieces. But from the first crudely drawn heart received at age eight to countless affairs in over a decade and a half since, she had never even contemplated the possibility that she could find herself left alone in a rumpled bed.

Despite her beauty and charm and all the seductive guile at her disposal when she had recovered, soaring on the most sublime afterglow of her life and eager to repeat the experience, she had found herself slapped with rejection.

Oh, he had been polite enough and his 'it's not you, it's me' oration was most earnest but she had heard it from her own lips far too many times to be fooled. Once the deed was done, she expected her ardour to fade, instead she found herself desperate to salvage something of it and waylaid her dignity as surely as she had her underclothes. And he had called it a mistake that should not have happened. Rejection was bad enough but that flicker of horrified revulsion in his eyes and the need reflected in her own made it so much worse.

The realisation that the three years she had invested in seducing the man had returned an ironic reversal, with herself not only seduced but then also discarded, was a bitter pill indeed. And no matter how angry and indignant she felt, she had a sense of looming catastrophe -very like the time she had sat down to take stock of the family's debts after her father succumbed to his long and expensive illness and knew, even before the accounts were balanced, that the true extent of the loss was beyond her estimation.

The cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with damp from the frosty offshore wind that swept through the towering, stony edifices of the Estates. Up here, at the very summit of Kirkwall, the night fell thick and quiet, far removed from the Lowtown bustle that endured through all hours of day or night.

Where the narrow alleys and treacherous staircases of the former slave quarter filled out with cat-calling whores and rowdy drunkards once evening fell, they remained stark and deserted in Hightown except for the occasional party of revellers returning home late from the _Rose._

Hawke had grown lax living in Hightown, no longer stealing a glance over her shoulder around every corner nor starting at every crunch of gravel in the shadows. It was easy to become accustomed to safety when not having to snatch it desperately from the jealous fingers of chance.

So she did not notice the silent, invisible forms that slithered through the shadows and crept into a circle around her until they barred her path.

"Nowhere to run, Fereldan whore."

Hawke stopped short and too late, spinning around to enumerate the threat. Though the thick fog of inebriation and soft living had weighed down her instincts, her skills had not faded in the years since the Deep Roads expedition. The presence of muggers in Hightown was somewhat surprising but she showed no panic, for no-one who has lived any amount of time in Lowtown can remain oblivious to such dangers and devoid of some contingency against them.

"I left my purse at home, there's nothing to rob - sorry." She replied casually, estimating the best way to contain the bandits and debilitate them long enough to escape.

She was no warrior and entertained no delusions of combat. She did not possess the abilities her sister had of harnessing the elements to defend her, nor had bothered to learn from Merrill how to turn nature and the earth against enemies in the way of the Dalish.

Most of her skills were of a decidedly non-violent persuasion and in the vein of her only expertise – manipulating things to her advantage, and, when that failed, reinforcing her position with a posse of devoted enforcers. As a teenager, this had been the gang of local bullies enticed into her service with stolen liquor and vague romantic hopes and when they fled to Kirkwall, Carver and Aveline had filled that role for years. Since then her brother had rebelled, and the aspiring templar no longer spoke with the apostate sister. At least he hadn't reported her to his superiors as she had feared at first.

Still, there was a defensive trick or two her father had drilled into her to evade enemies (and mages on the run, always had plenty of those). There was also the Mabari. He had followed them out of the house when she left with Isabela and was likely near enough that a whistle would summon him to her aid.

"So if you," she noticed that each and every one of the bandits was a woman, "kind ladies will allow, I'll be on my way and my friend the Guard Captain will be ever so pleased to hear I never ran into any of you."

"You're goin' nowhere, missy!" The woman in the centre snarled. Hawke figured her for the gang leader if the size of the hammer she waved was any indication. "I knows where you live – that big corner house, I bring you to Gracious and she'll squeeze out big coin from your folk."

Hawke cringed at the mutilation of grammar, "I hope Gracious will be gracious enough to overlook your stupidity when you get your whole gang killed. I am not without weapons."

That did not have the desired placating effect. The gang leader erupted with a violent cry and came at her with the hammer. Hawke had a moment to react and summoned a basic but powerful blast of arcane force to throw her attacker off balance and stun everyone else who converged upon her. She retreated as far as she could to avoid being flanked, the little spell had only bought her a moment and quickly she whistled for the dog, reaching to draw her staff, and finding to her horror that she had not carried it with her.

As the gravity of her situation sank in, her confidence from a moment ago evaporated in a fit of panic. Without a staff to channel mana, she was effectively neutralised.

Everyone who had ever warned her against venturing outside alone after dark now paraded through her thoughts chastising her for her foolishness. She made to run, bolting towards the end of the street where it joined with the main avenue, praying Aveline's patrol was not at the other end of the district, but the spell was wearing off and the unsure swing of someone's axe cut her off, the blade slamming just inches from her feet.

"You got a bit a' hocus pocus, little missy?" It was the gang leader again, shaking off the last cobwebs of magic from her mind and bearing down with that monstrous hammer larger than Hawke's own torso. "Maybe I'll get more money off you from those Gallows templars. They say ye get extra fer the pretty 'uns!"

Hawke backed quickly out of the hammer's range, but more and more bandits were shrugging off the effect and they all came for her, multiple weapons glinting in the light of the moon. She was a flurry of movement – ducking and twisting, trying to stay out of the arcs of various deadly weapons any one of which could slice her in two until finally resorting to the time-tested expediency of screaming for help.

"No one's comin' to yer help at this time o' night." Someone growled to her right and she narrowly avoided a sword thrust that would have skewered her.

Suddenly, something so large and heavy collided with her that for a moment it felt she had been knocked out of her body. She crashed into the pavement. Her head swam nauseatingly, her body exploded in pain as her vision clouded and she retched violently. Vaguely, she grew aware of barking nearby and more yelling as someone went down to the ferocious war dog that had entered the fray.

There was a brief moment of respite while the bandits ignored her in their attempt to contain the vicious attack hound but any hope that flickered was short lived. She knew they would likely kill her pet and then return for her anyway. The thought twisted her heart. She had to act. Wincing with pain, she crawled to her feet. The diversion had bought her time. She could have turned and run for her life but instead she dug into her reservoirs and cast another spell.

When she opened her eyes, completely drained, the bandits surrounding her dog stood motionless, instantly asleep on their feet.

"Good dog! You came!" She gasped, heaving with exertion and pain. "Now get out of here, go get help." She ordered but the dog merely tipped his big head and whined.

There was no time to stand around and argue with an animal. She had barely finished the thought when the beast came rushing in her direction. She spun around as he streaked past her and beheld the looming leader of the gang. The large woman grinned, hefting the hammer and batted off the charging Mabari. He collided into an adjacent wall and collapsed into a whining heap.

"Bitch" Hawke yelled, limping in a circle around her, painfully aware of how much a blow from that hammer hurt. She was far from certain she could survive another one. It hurt even to breathe. "Back off! I'm warning you, you won't be happy when I crush your lungs." It was a bluff; Hawke did not think she had enough energy to remain upright much less cast a spell of that magnitude.

Behind her, the bespelled bandits began to stir. The fell hammer came at her again and she dodged sideways, using the instant in which the gang leader regained her balance to strike, kicking her heel into a kneecap, hoping to break something vital. The woman went down with an agonised scream but Hawke had no time to exult in that small victory before someone surprised her from behind.

White hot pain shot through her and she screamed, sinking to her knees as warm, thick blood seeped down the back of her pearly pink evening robes. Her face hit the cold stone and as the warm trickle pooled around her head and neck she grew dimly aware of a new commotion. Yelling pierced the night air, and wild cries echoed off the stone; steel clashed against steel occasionally punctuated by the thick wet sound of it running through flesh.

Suddenly she was transported back to Ferelden and that terrible day with the horde pouring into Lothering, cutting people down. The screams of women and children, the palpable fear as she and Carver herded the family through back alleys and side streets, the town burning down around them until everything was lost to thick black fog.

"Get up."

Someone shook her and the pain that sliced through her body dragged her from the brink of sweetly tempting oblivion. She swore but all that came out was a moan. Why couldn't they let her sleep? She was so tired...

"Stay awake, Hawke."

Strong hands gripped her under the arms and hoisted her up. She caught the flash of a dull blue glow and struggled to find her legs until the blade still lodged in her back shifted with the movement and searing pain shot through her with an intensity that made her black out again.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	3. 02 Point, Counterpoint

**Author's Note**

Once again, I'm grateful to my beta **strangegibbon** for her constant support and encouragement. With special thanks to **Fever Dream** and to everyone who read, added this story to their alerts or favourites and especially to those who reviewed. You made my day.

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **Bioware_._**

Rated T, but may on occasion, trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>2. Point, Counterpoint<strong>_

There was someone holding her eyes open to a blinding flash of light, and she tried to squeeze them shut against it.

"There's pupil reaction. Hurry. She's slipping." A warm familiar voice filtered through what felt like bales of wool packing in her ears. "There's haemopneumothorax, severe internal contusion-possibly multiple rib fractures. We to need to drain the wound quickly. I need an injury kit, or two. Make it three, she's haemorrhaging."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Another familiar voice, it was rich and deep. She tried to crane her neck toward it but her head seemed to be restrained. "The Hospitaliers at the Circle-"

"Are you mad?" The former voice cut him off, "do you think they'll just let her walk out again? Go away."

"She might live." The voice reverberated in all the right places with her; she wanted to sink into it, barely even registering the conversation.

"She'll be Tranquil."

"But alive."

"There's nothing they can do for her that I can't, now get out of my clinic."

Suddenly, a glow enveloped her. Comforting warmth spread slowly through her veins. Her eyes rolled back and she was lost to nothingness again.

Hawke woke chasing strange dreams in the Fade that vanished as soon as her eyes opened. Muted sunlight poured through; diffuse beams that dappled her surroundings in large swatches of light and dark. Ambient noises started to register with her, the low gurgle of pipes and the grind of shifting metal, the din of a milling crowd not too far away, the chatter of voices nearby, the clink of utensils and other little sounds that were mundane but strange to wake up to. As she inhaled, the cloying stench of death and sewage overlaid with antiseptic tincture burrowed into her nostrils.

Slowly, as her mind emerged from the depths of sedation, she grew aware that she was not alone, and certainly not at home in her bed. The cold, hard press of stone beneath her suggested she was not even on a mattress. Her eyes drifted around, slowly taking in her surroundings and when she couldn't identify her whereabouts, panic set in. With a start, she attempted to push herself upright but pain stabbed through the whole of her back and something sharp and stinging pinched her skin. The combination made her cry out, only to learn she was parched. Her head pounded, her back smarted and her limbs were a dead weight.

Slowly, memories of the night before trickled back and a face merged into her vision. Recognising the flat planes of the cheeks, the soft kind eyes and generous mouth smiling at her through day old bristles banished her earlier alarm and she relaxed, the sedatives coursing through her blood buoying her up on a sense of serene well being.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." She tried to be charming but her voice came out in a decidedly unattractive croak.

"Shh. Don't talk. Here." He pressed something cold and hard to her parched lips. It was ice and it alleviated her discomfort. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Marian thought the healer was definitely less morose in his bedside manner. Also more attractive, how had she never noticed that little crinkle in the corner of his mouth when he smiled?

"Hawke?" He was smiling at her now and she felt elated.

"Partying," she replied, shifting attention to his question and wincing at all the black holes in her recall, "with Isabela." It was difficult to speak and Anders placed the ice cube back on her lips before she thought to ask. He was so good to her. She resolved to make him cookies or to trick her mother into making him cookies – she was hopeless at baking. She beamed up at him.

"Some party." He was still smiling, and Hawke decided the halo of sunlight framing his head made him look like a spirit of virtue and fluffy bunnies. "You had a six inch knife in your back, crushed lungs from massive blunt trauma and several broken ribs."

"Trauma Bay." She stated vaguely, beginning to drift again.

Confusion marred his perfect features. "What?" It had sounded cleverer in her head.

"Wounded Coast." She added by way of explanation, still pleased at her own joke.

He grinned, revealing a row of perfect pearly whites. "Do you know why you're so happy right now?"

Of course she knew. She was in love.

"You're loaded up on pure lyrium." That did seem a better explanation. "Now try to remember what happened."

She frowned. Flashes of memory returned to her, the bandits, the ridiculously large hammer that had slammed into her – a dense cloud hung over the details. "Attack." Suddenly, she remembered more and her heart snagged. "Where is he?"

"Fenris?" Anders inquired, his pleasant expression morphing into one of distaste. "He wanted to turn you into the Circle."

Hawke blinked.

"I thought you were dying." The accused retorted marching in, dominating the room with his presence even though he was out of sight. "And I didn't think he was up to the task."

Her heart sped up at the sound of his voice, so rich that it was a sin. Each syllable slipping into her ears and curling up her insides, every word an indulgence - a wicked and guilty pleasure – as luscious and decadent as dark chocolate and just as bitter. His voice thrilled her to hear it even as his words made her bristle. Her buoyant mood gave way to one of annoyance. Anders had delivered at every turn; he had proved himself invaluable and deserved no-one's scorn.

"Thank you for having care of me." She rewarded the medic with a smile and he glowed predictably, but she pressed on feeling uninhibited. "You have such...skillful fingers."

The innuendo was lost on no one. Anders leaned gently over her, brushing a lock of her hair out of the way, her words giving him the confidence to stake a claim while the other glared, smouldering where he stood – she could sense him radiating anger even out of her line of sight. The standoff was amusing really, Isabela would have been delighted.

All of a sudden, he sprung into motion. One stride and he was hovering over her, face set in grim lines. Her eyes knew exactly where to find the little nick under his right brow or the small, insignificant groove across the bridge of his nose or the exact point over his chin where the lyrium veins were just slightly asymmetrical. His hair caught the light, glinting like silver and falling over his eyes. Isabela was right, by the Maker, they were beautiful. The last time she had gazed into those large olive irises was when he was braced over her and inside her and if Marian had been any other woman, the vivid memory scrambling her mind may have coloured her cheek, but she let it pass over her. She was of stronger stuff.

At present he was livid and his mere proximity raised the heat in her blood, in good ways and bad.

"You damned fool!" He hissed, and then swore unintelligibly in Tevinter or Qunari or whatever he muttered from time to time. "What if I had not been there?"

Anders reacted by trying to insert his arm between them. "Stop harassing my patient! Back off!"

"Where is he?" She interrupted them. The bickering could wait. "My dog."

Both men stared at her.

Fenris spoke first, recovering a little. "Chasing rats near the old mining tunnels. He's fine." He ground out each word.

"She needs to rest now." Anders insisted, clutching a shoulder to pull him away from the surgical bench. "You should leave."

"I'll be outside," He said, shrugging off the mage, eyes fastened upon Hawke. "When you are ready, I will take you home." Then he turned and swept out of the room, leaving a silence reminiscent of the stillness in a storm's wake.

After the moment passed, Anders turned back to her. "Now wasn't that a pain. Would you like something to soothe you?"

Once he mentioned it, Hawke realised that she was indeed throbbing all over. She nodded.

"This will help." He placed a hand over her forehead and a healing glow surged through her body, washing away all sundry aches and pains. "Now sleep."

She went out like a snuffed candle.

"Take one of these for pain, but not more than four in a day." Anders explained, tucking a packet of tiny red vials into her hand. "Go home and rest and I can take the stitches out in a few days." He cradled her face with both hands and looked into her sapphire eyes. He could pretend it was to reinforce his advice but Hawke suspected he just wanted to be familiar, perhaps even for the benefit of the elf leaning against the wall, brooding and glaring at them darkly.

"I won't get out of bed at all." Hawke let him have her gaze and he smiled, stroking her cheeks with his thumb.

"All right, then." He gingerly helped her off the bench. "No more parties like that one."

Hawke chuckled and shook her head, allowing him to assist her although she was confident she could have managed on her own.

She found her feet and stood, adjusting the remnants of her clothes so that they were serviceable enough for the trip home. When she looked up, sensing a change in his mood, she met not the affably pleasant expression she had been admiring previously but a wretched one as he stood before her wringing his hands. She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to share and regretted her curiosity the moment he snatched that cue and launched.

"I was meaning to talk to you for a while. There is something that weighs heavily on my heart and Justice is ill at ease. I know you sympathise with the plight of Kirkwall's mages."

In the corner, Fenris snorted derisively. Hawke did not so much as sympathise with mages as delight in outwitting templars. Her forehead furrowed and she exhaled with a long-suffering sigh. He had been so sweet too without all the melancholy. It was such a pity it was back. She nodded as gravely as she could, though her insides had begun to squirm already at the prospect of what he wanted from her. She resolved to refuse outright if it was a re-draft of his manifesto that he wanted her to proof read. She glanced at Fenris wondering if she could convince him to do it. She suppressed the giggle that nearly burst through at the idea and maintained an even expression.

"Have you noticed how many Tranquil are in the Gallows courtyard lately?"

Hawke walked out of the clinic much later than she had planned with Fenris cursing Anders under his breath as he tended to from time to time.

"Why do you hate him so- I'm no different- and what if he is right? Would you see me made Tranquil?" They reached the steep set of stairs that led down from the clinic and she stopped, contemplating how to negotiate the steps without pulling her stitches.

Fenris came around. "Can you get down?"

Hawke tossed her head and took the first step, but it made her wince. "I should manage."

Yet he was having none of it, and caught her arm. "Let me."

"What? You want to lift me, Fenris?" Hawke shook her head. "Can't touch my back, remember?"

He smirked and spun her around to face him, capturing her eyes. His hands slid around her waist, then travelled south, rounding over her curves, grasping the back of her thighs to pull her flush against him. Marian felt her breath hitch in her chest. His arms flexed and she felt the slip of his muscles pressed into her flesh as he lifted up. Her legs drew around him and she placed her arms around his neck; their bodies sliding into a well remembered fit. She did not avert her gaze from his eyes. Some masochistic part of her wanted to know if his mind had wandered to the same memories. Whether there was desire, maybe even regret lurking beneath.

He glared right back at her, steely as ever. No words disrupted the communion between them but her mind raced, churning with desire. She wanted to push him against the stairwell wall, claim his mouth and drink him in, bury him within her. The need so intense, it was a physical discomfort.

Yet all too soon, they reached the bottom of the stairs and he dropped her abruptly, unconcerned when she faltered a little, gasping for the breath that she had neglected to draw on the trip down. He moved forward without a backward glance and she was forced to hurry after him.

"You are not weak." He said once she was abreast of him. "That is the difference."

A dozen witty remarks formed in her head but she voiced none of them, concentrating instead on keeping pace. It was much harder than usual as he marched them without pause through the narrow, filth-strewn alleys lined with beggars holding a hand out for coin.

Hawke avoided looking at them. Most were Fereldan like her, refugees that never made it out of grinding poverty, now driven into the bowels of the city, subsisting on whatever they could scrape from the refuse. It was a festering pit, full of hunger and disease and people reduced to living like rats, among rats. Even making it to that squat shack of her uncle's had been a boon compared to what this multitude endured. If she had coin in her pockets she would have handed it out as she invariably did whenever she was forced to come down here; not for charity as much as to assuage the guilt she felt for her own relative affluence – for having escaped when so many with whom she had docked all those years ago, had not.

"Keep up, Hawke. We must move on." Fenris chided, turning around and seizing her upper arm to pull her along. "I want to see you home before nightfall."

Hawke bristled, pursing her lips in a line and hating that she was holding them back, but she was tiring and her back rippled with pain. It took all her strength to maintain the pace, leaving none for retorts. Besides, he was right. Darktown was dangerous and it was a long walk home through Lowtown beyond.

Another flight of stairs and Fenris reached for her, lifting her in the same way as before. It was agony being so close to him. The scent of his skin in her nose, the taste of him almost on her lips. If he was affected by her when she was wrapped around him, he never succumbed to holding her a moment longer than necessary and while Marian could scarcely tame her thundering heart, he betrayed no loss of composure at all.

By the time they had climbed back to Lowtown, Hawke was exhausted; the trek and the tension having sapped most of the strength she had regained.

"Please, a moment." she said as they made the final landing. "I must catch my breath." It was a grudging surrender but there were more stitches in her sides than she had set out with in her back. She leaned against a parapet and drew a long breath. Lowtown was no garden but the air was still fresher than the dank, sewage vapour beneath the city. The evening sun dazzled her eyes and she squinted against it.

"You need more exercise and less drink." He scoffed, casing their surroundings carefully as was his habit. Once satisfied with that, he found a cobweb clinging to a spiky pauldron and dusted off his leathers with the same care. He never looked at her once.

Hawke glared at him slack-jawed and indignant, unable to think of a single retort. Beneath the aggravation, there was a stirring of self-doubt, had she really put on weight?

"About what happened," She began after much hesitation, deciding to ignore the gibe and file it away for later consideration.

"Save it. It is done. There is no need for a dissection." Fenris cut her off, and when Marian looked into his face it was unyielding.

It dawned on her that he was talking not of the night before, but the one before that. She studied his expression blankly, giving no sign that her emotions were churning as hope and dismay surged and she fought to contain both. The admission that it had been on his mind, as it had been on hers gave her hope but the cutting finality of his words dashed it again, leaving her ever more wretched. She looked away.

"Last night," She began again, trying and failing to keep a waver out of her voice. The segue she had chosen could have been mistaken for a correction of subject but the truth lay exposed between them in the rawness of her voice.

He glared at her. "How could you be so foolish."

Hawke snapped her head back to meet his anger. "I am not a child, Fenris. It was a short walk, one I have taken countless times." She countered, letting some feeling into her tone. She could be angry too. She could be very angry. She wanted to throw something at him, just to underline the point. "I did not think-"

"Yes, you did not think." He was in her face in one motion, caging her against the parapet where she stood. "You did not think that anyone could be your equal, your match. You traipsed about like you were master of all, but you were not, were you? You aren't."

Marian stared in shock at his face and the anger it harboured, caught like a deer in the sight of a drawn arrow. Air abandoned her lungs and she could not draw breath to reply. His words ripping as surely, as if he had reached inside and clenched her heart in his fist. Her hand clasped to her chest involuntarily as if to make sure his arm had not indeed phased through her body and only when she was certain she was inviolate that her lungs recovered function. This was no longer about last night. This cut ran deeper.

"How dare you!" She hissed, "You lout! How dare you!" She pushed against the prison of his arms but he did not give. "Release me at once!"

"Listen to me." He continued but Marian was willing to hear none of it.

"Unhand me, right now." She struggled to pry his arms from around her, "One thought, and you'll be sprawled on the ground, Fenris. I swear it."

"You know how that will end."

Marian cringed at the memory of the Fade, Feynriel, the Pride Demon and the battle of which he spoke. It had lasted all of two moments: two quick strokes and he had cut her down before she could cast a cantrip. Duelling was not her strong suit.

"When you helped me against Danarius' men, I made a promise." He spoke into her ear and she shivered, literally and embarrassingly. Her cheeks were inflamed with anger and indignity and whatever it was that he did to her. "Allow me to keep it." Her heart beat so fast she thought she would faint. "I brought you back from the Deep Roads in one piece."

"I need air."

"Heed this, you will go nowhere - at all- without me," She started to squirm, "and I will keep you alive." His hands were around her waist as he held her pinned against the low wall and she could feel the warm press of his fingers against her skin, even through her robes. Whether he had pushed the pads of his digits through the fabric with his strange lyrium powers, she did not know but she knew her knees were weak and her stomach was in delicious, excruciating knots. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Fenris." She breathed harshly, redoubling her effort to free herself.

"Hawke." As suddenly as he had captured her, he had released her, leaving her to scramble for breath and composure and put herself to rights before hastening after him toward Hightown.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Please click on the yellow bubble and leave a word!  
><strong>


	4. 03 Red is for Romance

**Author's Note**

Eternal gratitude to my beta **strangegibbon**, the scourge of vagrant plot beats. A special thanks to **Fever Dream **and everyone who read, reviewed, added to their alerts and favourites.

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware_._**

Story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, it may on occasion trespass through M**_.__  
><em>**

* * *

><p><strong><em>3. Red is for Romance<em>**

"A little uneven here." Hawke examined the line of her freshly plucked eyebrow and found a microscopic flaw in the angle of its arch. She leaned her head back and Orana gingerly teased the offending hair out with a pair of fine tweezers, her face scrunched up in concentration.

"Mistress." The waifish elven girl stepped back again as Marian inspected the result in the mirror.

"Much better now," she stated much to her servant's relief and did not notice the girl's resulting exhale while she admired herself. She affected a winning smile in the mirror and dabbed her fingertips in a pot of amaranth rouge to apply over her lips and cheeks once more until she was finally satisfied with the result. "What do you think, Orana?"

"You look beautiful, Mistress." The elf stated sincere enough in her adulation. "You are so beautiful, like Mistress- like Hadriana, Mistress."

Marian turned her head to look at her and gave her a dazzling smile. Her face freshly scrubbed, waxed and tinted with the most fashionable spring colours was flawless. The country artlessness that had clung to her appearance had all but disappeared. Her ruddy freckled skin had reverted to magnolia pale guarded from the sun. Its creamy softness was the painstaking achievement of a nightly regime of rejuvenating anointments, followed more religiously than the Chant of Light. The bleached platinum locks, crudely sheared, which had once so scandalised Lothering had given way to carefully pruned raven curls, primped and conditioned to perfect lustre as was considered a la mode in Kirkwall.

"Do you think I've put on weight, Orana?" Marian stood and smoothed down her new watered silk robes, a signature _Jean Luc_ item from the latest spring collection. She tucked in her stomach and ran her hands over her perfectly trim waist.

"Oh no, Mistress. You are just perfect."

"I think I was thinner last spring," she glanced at the girl and then, satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, granted her a reprieve."You can take the afternoon off, I won't be home anyway."

She smiled at Orana's gratified fluster, struck by guilt not for the first time for letting the girl work without pay. It wasn't as if she were actually a slave, she reminded herself, she could leave any time she wanted. All her needs were met and she was allowed as much time off as the other servants. The dues the elf owed for settling in the city had been paid and this was excluding the free board and lodging. What did it matter if the arrangement fell short of what she had promised Fenris? It was the spirit, not the form of it that should matter and in her mind she had been over-generous. Counting off the list of endowments appeased her conscience long enough to banish the subject from her thoughts.

When she floated down the stairs, she found her mother settled by the fire, her needlework basket at hand and the tablecloth she was embroidering spread upon her lap. Her eyes widened in delight before the admiration touched her smile. "Andraste's grace, Marian, you do look lovely. Are you going out?"

Marian nodded her head once, strolling over to the fireplace to allow Leandra to admire her more closely while she slipped her hands into a pair of gloves. "Aveline has requested to see me today so I am expected at the Viscount's Keep - no sense arriving ratty."

"Will that dear boy be there?" Leandra asked hopefully, not even bothering to keep the excitement out of her voice.

"The father, the son, the Seneschal or his son?" Marian raised an eyebrow and looked down at her, "I daresay, Mother, you'd be just as delighted if I bedded any of them!"

"Oh, Marian! Don't be vulgar." She gasped, her cheeks reddening. "That unsavoury girl you keep company with has loosened your tongue. You won't catch a husband with that talk."

Hawke smiled widely and bent down to kiss her mother's cheek. "I shall keep my tongue reined in when I see them, then."

"You mustn't leave without a hat, dear girl." Leandra continued, her needlework forgotten now that she had something to fuss over.

Marian dangled a brightly coloured scarf that coordinated with the rest of her outfit, "Worry not," she assured her, arranging the cowl over her head before the console mirror in the foyer.

"Bodahn," she called, adding a few last touches to her appearance while the dwarf scuttled over. "Has my escort arrived?"

"Not yet, Madam." He stated, taking a position by the hall door.

"I see. What about that little thing I asked you for, is it ready?"

To this, Bodahn nodded vigorously and produced the small item. "I do hope it meets your needs Madam."

Hawke examined it closely, tilting it this way and that to scrutinise the evenness of the polish. "Yes, I think this will do quite nicely. Thank you." She drew a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and wrapped the object in a neat bundle.

"Is that a present for Aveline, dear?" Leandra peered at the wrapping curiously.

"Not for Aveline." Just then the doorbell tinkled and Hawke looked up as Bodahn rushed to attend.

"Were we expecting company?" Leandra wondered aloud. Hawke sighed, a little exasperated by the persistent questions and responded to her mother with a slight smile.

Bodahn returned announcing their visitor and Marian felt her heart skip a beat as Fenris padded inside behind him.

Seeing him in the flesh, she wondered not for the first time why she always felt so absurdly delighted to see him no matter how many times a week they crossed paths. She abridged the grin that threatened to engulf her face to a demure smile just in time and glanced at her mother, who met her eyes, lips pursing in an unhappy line.

"Fenris, how nice to see you this morning – again," Leandra greeted in a voice that failed to quite capture her pleasure.

Hawke allowed her smile to widen slightly, regarding her mother's awkward discomfort with growing amusement. Leandra had found Fenris tolerable enough, if a little ungenial, whilst they lived in Lowtown. Since then, Leandra's welcoming mat had frayed for the elf and he had been relegated to the register of visitors she would prefer to receive only very rarely. Of course, Leandra considered herself too well bred to admit this, therefore her official position was that it was improper for her daughter to count him among her frequent callers (because of his mercenary vocation, no doubt) rather than own any prejudice on her part.

"Leandra." Fenris replied coolly, looking at Hawke and resting his gaze on her getup a little longer than necessary. She offered him a sunny smile.

"Good morning to you too," she stated convivially. "Mother was just about to have tea and crumpets, won't you join us?" Leandra glared at her daughter.

"No." He said simply, noting the exchanged glances between mother and daughter and being none too amused. "If you are ready, then we should leave."

"Oh, come on. Don't be a grouch, Aveline won't mind waiting a bit." Hawke glided forward and waved Bodahn to the pantry.

Leandra looked distraught.

"Aveline may not, but I have business to attend after this. I do not have the luxury to be at your beck and call."

"Oh, don't hold him on my account, Daughter. You better hurry, Fenris." The elder Hawke lady chimed in, happy to find an excuse to see him gone quickly.

Hawke let her face fall in mock disappointment. "But I thought you were _my _champion!"

Fenris fastened his eyes on her and raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate and looking far from impressed.

When he did not respond one way or another, she continued, "I have something for you. Since you appointed yourself as such, I thought you should have something to show for it."

She took his arm and laid the bundle in his hand, unravelling the bright red silk ceremoniously to reveal a small silverite shield emblazoned with the Amell family crest that the Hawkes had adopted.

"This is supposed to be, what, your _favour_?" He sneered, thrusting it back at Hawke. "Keep it to yourself."

Leandra sagely chose that moment to make herself scarce. "I think I will take tea in the Morning Room. Bodahn, could you fetch dear Orana and let her know please?"

The silence stretched while everyone filed out of the room until they were alone.

"So you are refusing it?" Marian levelled her gaze at him, her expression humoured just so, in a way she knew would bait his ire.

Truthfully, she could not say what she expected from this confrontation. His self-appointment as her de-facto bodyguard was advantageous to her in every way. It provided her with an excuse to see him as often as she cared to and she had no need for pretexts. Yet the arrangement irked her like a badly fitting shoe.

She simply hated that all she had of him was whatever he doled out to her in careful measure. That the parameters of their relationship, such as it was, were not of her design, that even when he offered her his blade or his friendship, it was on terms determined by him and not those of her choosing. She wanted him obsessed with her, distracted by her, craving her and dedicated to whatever she demanded. She wanted all of him, including the things he kept to himself.

"Keep your bloody crest, I will wear no one's livery." He spun on his heel, "And get moving."

"It's a gift, Fenris, a mark of gratitude if you will." She retorted. "Must you be uncivil about everything?"

Fenris stopped and spun around. His expression was contorted with rage, hands clenched into white fists – a shudder travelled through his lean frame and he flew towards her. "I know what this is about. Tell me, Hawke, how long did you wait before you were drinking to your conquest with Isabela? Do you think me stupid? This is a game to you."

Clutching her hands, he ripped the shield from her fingers. "Is there a wager on this too?" He spat, yanking his belt free. He slipped the little shield through so it rested over his left hip, then he pulled the silk around his wrist in a knot. "There." He held up his arm, "so be it."

Marian recoiled from his vehemence, tugging her arm free of his grasp, her cheeks burning hot in abashment and dismay. He was never supposed to know and yet Isabela, loosened with liquor, would not pass up on gossip and Varric could be expected to treasure nothing as much as a raunchy tale of profit and loss. Hawke did not want to believe it yet she could picture their conversation at The Hanged Man over dice and ale. Was her humiliation in Lowtown now complete? Did the tavern run ablaze with rumour that not only had she bedded him on a copper but also that those miserable coins were all she had to show for it?

"Who told you that?" She rasped out finally, her voice choked with outrage. "Who?"

He had reached the door and turned around to glance at her as he opened it, flooding the foyer with harsh sunlight. He stepped outside in the glare, his mouth twisted in the barest of smirks.

"No one needed to, I can read it in your face."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

Please don't hesitate to drop a word. Reviews motivate me!


	5. 04 Vanity Fair

**Author's Note**

I am forever grateful to **strangegibbon**, my beta and her favoured weapon - the red font of doom! Special thanks to **Fever Dream **and all the wonderful, wonderful people who dropped reviews and PMs and/or added this story to their alerts and motivate me to continue.

The Dragon Age Universe and all the people who inhabit it belong to **Bioware**.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>3. <strong>_**_Vanity Fair_**

The former Amell Estate, recently reacquired by the Hawke family, was advantageously located in the central square within easy reach of just about every notable point of interest.

Having the distinguished history of the Amell family attached to her name was no odious burden and living in the Estate reinforced the connection. However a tenuous link with a lineage long fallen out of favour and an ancestral house were ultimately secondary - Hawke was much more interested in making a statement of her worth. And in this, the house, quite regardless of its history, sat in perfect testimony.

The Hawke Estate was quite easily the most expensive private residence in Hightown. Ideally situated right at the base of the majestically ascending Viscount's Way, it was tucked in its very own elegant little alcove. Twin cypresses rose on either side of the entrance and a splendid vine framed the front stoop, rare novelties in the midst of all the stone. Sitting in the middle of the town square, it lay at the intersection of two of the most important centres of power in Kirkwall – the Keep and the Chantry, and it was impossible to reach either without glancing at the house and remembering to whom it belonged.

So whereas Leandra Hawke, widow of an apostate farmer, joyously revelled in being an Amell again and threw herself into the business of reforging all her old society connections, wooing the matrons of status at Chantry and angling for acceptance into that circle, all to ensure the Amells were once again counted in the highest social echelon; Marian instead was pleased to let all her neighbours know that she had accumulated more wealth in four years (even if not precisely accurate) than they had in generations despite her sorry Fereldan background. Even her large Mabari, so out of place in a neighbourhood of fancy toy poodles was a not so subtle assertion of impolite heritage and just one more offence against Hightown's decorum.

Not surprisingly, this dichotomy of aspiration between mother and daughter was often a point of contention. Nor did Leandra approve of her daughter's business or her activities of leisure and least of all the majority of her closest friends. Leandra could scarcely countenance Isabela or Varric, considered the elves unequal to her attention and cringed any time Anders visited, dragging his Darktown-muddied boots into the house. In short, Leandra would have liked nothing more than for her daughter to associate only with Aveline Vallen, the Ostagar veteran who had fled Lothering with them, now Captain of the City Guard. Very recently the exiled aristocrat Sebastian Vael, had been added to Leandra's list of approved visitors. In fact her greatest desire now, perhaps even eclipsing the grand reception she hoped to throw one day, was to see her only remaining daughter wedded to the Prince of Starkhaven and settled in a suitably well appointed mansion to keep house and bear children - non-magical ones of course.

Normally, emerging from the stoop of her home and striding toward the Keep, full of purpose was a secret thrill for all the looks of grudging awe at her quick fortune that tracked her path. But that day the walk up the Viscount's Way was a blur.

Frustration, humiliation and anger all clamoured for attention and it tested even her mettle to maintain an air of indifference. Why should I care what he thinks, she argued with herself but despite the absence of even the barest rationale, she found that she did.

Fenris's nimble gait ate up the distance until the magnificent entrance to the Keep towered above them. They were ushered inside and entered together after which he fell back, quiet and surly, while she was forced to navigate through the citizens of note milling around inside the grand halls.

She had spent hours polishing her appearance for these chance encounters upon which fortunes could be turned but now her mind could not be summoned to properly attend the task. The faces of people she greeted in passing or those that nodded to her merged together and her reactions were automatic. She weaved from one knot of nobles to another, barely managing to nod her head, smile and keep up appearances. By the time she reached the stairs at the end of the hall, the mingling had turned into a nightmare.

She was marching along the mezzanine landing toward the door to the hallway that led to the Barracks, eager to escape into Aveline's office when Fenris checked her advance. She tore her arm away from his grasp and turned on him with a testy, 'What?' only to be redirected.

"Serah Hawke!" It was Saemus Dumar, the viscount's son and heir to Kirkwall's crown and he looked as if he had been repeating her name for some time.

"Sire, how do you do?" She held out a hand automatically, marshalling as best she could under the circumstances. Her reticence surprised her. For months she had stalked these halls, hoping to run into him and now that the moment was before her and she could not be less excited.

Fortunately, the younger Dumar did not seem to notice her lacking manners due to his own unease. "Uh, Saemus, please, if you would. I wish for no formality between us." He clasped his hands tightly and glanced nervously at a scowling Fenris. "I've glimpsed you inside and out of the Keep a few times now and I wanted to see how you were – I can hardly thank you enough for bringing me home and for your understanding –"

Marian observed the silent exchange between the two men for a moment, then she took his hands in hers, attempting her most fetching smile. "Of course – Saemus – do you not consider me a friend? And who keeps count of such things among friends?" She parlayed patting his arm and reminding him, in fact, to remember the favour due. She was growing adept at court politics.

"Of course, Mar- Serah Hawke." He stammered, distracted by her touch. Hawke thought it was painfully obvious that the young man was taken with her, hoping to be invited to her first name and it was equally obvious that Fenris did not care for it.

"I think I will need allies like you. Struggling against the prejudice for the Qunari - it has gotten no easier. The situation at the docks is tense-" He soldiered on, grasping at his favourite subject for some confidence.

Hawke nodded sympathetically but the mention of Qunari and politics left her attention adrift. Fenris noted the glaze that fell over her expression with a snort.

"You must unburden your heart to me, over tea perhaps? My mother would love to hear your views on the Qun." Marian was not opposed to politics, she simply preferred it when the subject was diluted with pleasant banter, good food, strong drink and when she could dress appropriately to do justice to matters of such import. Besides, his liberal views would be shocking to Leandra and that would present no small amount of entertainment on a quiet afternoon.

Saemus hesitated at first but capitulated eventually under the heavy onslaught of her vivacious smile and they parted with Hawke happily in possession of both his promise to visit and a one up over Fenris. The sight of the viscount's gilded carriage, golden falcon gleaming, parked casually in front of her house some afternoon was just the type of impression the Hawkes could do with.

"You never miss a chance, do you?" Fenris said, once Saemus had wandered off.

Hawke glowered at him, all the congeniality she was affecting evaporating off her face.

"Whatever do you mean, Fenris? I can't be privy to all the vile little plots you imagine I conceive."

She turned and stalked up the next flight of stairs without waiting for a response.

"You were not as happy to see him as you pretended. And Leandra will not care for his views on the Qun."

Hawk considered ignoring him as they entered the barracks, but resentment assumed the better of her. "I was delighted to see Saemus, he is a gentleman. And Mother will be overjoyed to have him for tea."

"Because he is the Viscount's heir, no doubt. Otherwise she didn't seem overly keen to share it."

"Careful, Fenris, you wouldn't be insulting my mother, would you?" Hawke reached the bottom step and confronted him. "Have you forgotten all the times she's slaved over a stove for you?"

He perched on a higher step and Hawk had to raise her chin to meet his eyes. "I have not forgotten I was welcome at your table when you lived with Gamlen in the Old City Slums."

"I wanted you to stay, Fenris, it was you who refused," she replied tartly, incensed by his insinuation. As Marian's eyes flicked over his face once again she had the sense that the conversation was no longer about the subject at hand.

His mouth curled in a small wry smirk.

Before Marian could continue, Aveline burst out of her office. "There you are, Hawke!" "I've been waiting all morning for you. Get in here." She held the door open, blue eyes flashing with impatience. "Hello, Fenris."

Hawke tore away from the standoff reluctantly and turned to her friend, following her into the office and clicking the door shut behind her.

"Isn't he coming in?" Aveline asked, leaning against the massive mahogany desk in the centre of the room. She crossed her arms and boots and regarded the smaller woman expectantly.

"He can stew outside." Hawke said crossly, her voice charged with exasperation, "until the high horse he's on throws him down and tramples him into little bits. I might pick up the pieces eventually," she sulked.

Aveline chuckled, "What did he do now? I thought you two were joined at the hip ever since the attack."

She sighed, taking the visitor chair and wishing very much for a moment that it were true, despite her vexation. "He called me a dirty social climber."

The Guard Captain gave out a bark of laughter and Hawke glared at her sternly. "I'm sorry, he happens to be wrong anyway; you aren't neglectful about bathing – that's Isabela."

"Oh, don't you start too."

Aveline laughed, "You've come a long way, Hawke. It isn't anything to be ashamed of."

"And I have the right to enjoy my success." Hawke added.

"You could think about giving back- you're clever and resourceful, there's a lot you could do for Kirkwall. Maker knows I could use some help."

"I am helping! Kirkwall is so drab - painting the town a little red is practically charitable of me."

Aveline shook her head. "At least we took care of the Invisible Sisters, they were a menace."

"Ladies' Lights Out." Hawke grinned.

"Your puns are getting worse."

"Foof, I happen to think it was quite clever." Hawke relaxed, enjoying the banter as her mood lifted. "So, why the urgent summons?"

Aveline coughed nervously and all of a sudden, her Captain-of-the-Guard confidence vanished and the shy country girl, much too tall and ungainly emerged from underneath all the plate armour, much to Hawke's amusement. She found her friend's metamorphosis a little endearing.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm in a pickle." Hawke gestured for her to continue. "Donnic," she blushed lightly, "and I – we're to attend the Spring Pageant Ball together."

"Oh my!" Hawke grinned wider.

Aveline shifted her weight uncomfortably, "I need your help deciding what to wear."

Hawke could scarcely conceal her glee. "I've always wanted to raid your mythical wardrobe, when can we start?"

"It's not mythical." Aveline fidgeted, "Look, when I'm not on duty, I'm out helping you and-"

"What are you saying, Aveline?" Hawke leaned forward, eyes widening.

"All right, Hawke. I'll just rip the band aid – I can't wear steel and I don't have anything else that's decent."

It was Hawke's turn to let out a shriek of laughter, "Oh Maker, this is unbelievable! Send a despatch for Isabela at once." Aveline started to frown, "We need her for this! There is no time to waste, we convene at _Jean Luc's_ at noon!"

The Hightown Market was considered the heart of the district. Brightly coloured awnings fluttered in the breeze and the bustle of eager shoppers haggling with impassioned merchants was a lively din that measured the pulse of the city. If citizens were anxious, business turned sluggish and when they were secure and optimistic, trade stayed brisk. Hawke had a special and particular interest in happy townspeople and as she entered the market place that fine early spring afternoon, she craned her neck to catch sight of _Hubert's Fine Goods_ through the thick crowd.

Monsieur Hubert was an Orlesian merchant whom Hawke had known for several years. His little store in Hightown traded in a variety of eclectic goods and antiques carried in by a network of caravans that plied the trade routes criss-crossing the Free Marches but the shop in Kirkwall was merely a front for his more lucrative mineral trading business.

Based out of the abandoned quarries outside Kirkwall known as The Bone Pit, for the longest time the mines had lain unexplored. Their dark and bloody past and the dangers still believed to lurk in the shadows had kept local labour at bay but three years ago the refugee crisis had changed all that. The tide of destitute Fereldans pouring in had created a surfeit of able-bodied workers desperate for employ and Hubert had offered Hawke a share in the concern for managing the enterprise.

It had not been without problems and many a crisis had halted production but Hawke had persevered. The Fereldans venerated her as something of a hero, a symbol of the immigrant dream, an embodiment of the the hope that with luck and hard work any one of them could pull themselves out of poverty. Be that as it may, Hawke found trudging around in the dismal, mist-shrouded pits absolutely horrendous yet it was a discomfort she gratefully endured for the income that filled her coffers and supported her lifestyle. She had made other investments around the city aided by Varric's counsel but this was a golden hen all her own. She had made it a point to prod Hubert for a report every day, and no matter how dire Aveline's wardrobe crisis it was ultimately in second place to a short meeting with the Orlesian entrepreneur.

Presently, Monsieur Hubert stood in front of his stall watching Hawke approach in trepidation. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked quite unhappy with his lot.

"Bonjour Mademoiselle, Guard-Captain." He said unctuously, with a little dip of his head as Hawke came abreast. "I'm honoured by your visit."

"I've seen two citations for violation of the employee code with your name on them this week. How's the situation at the quarry, Hubert?"

"Oh non, Captain – 'twas only a little misunderstanding, nothing to worry about." He threw up his arms and flashed a smile at Aveline that did quite the opposite of reassuring her. "Everything is peaceful."

"Make sure you keep it that way." He nodded his head vigorously while she eyed him dubiously.

"Not too boring I hope, surely you have something exciting to tell me." Hawke inquired next, casually leaning over the display counter to glance at his new wares.

"Oui, Serah – the week's balance sheet is ready, if you would care to study it now, yes?"

"Oh splendid!" Marian looked up beaming and turned to her companion, "You don't mind, do you?"

Aveline did in fact mind but she relented in the face of Hawke's eagerness. "Just bring it with you, you can pore over it while I get fitted."

Hawke happily plucked the scroll out of Monsieur Hubert's hand and then they were off to their destination on the other side of the Market Square.

When they arrived, Isabela had already made herself busy inside _Jean Luc's _and she had a very baffled Merrill in tow.

"Wouldn't he know they were fake when the bodice comes off though?" The elf held up a pair of bust inserts, weighing them in her hands, "I think it's kind of like cheating, really."

Isabela let out shrill laugh, "More like a bluff, kitten. By the time you show the cut of your jib, he's in much too deep to pedal back out of the creek."

Merrill giggled uncertainly, regarding Isabela with diffident confusion. "You made that dirty didn't you? I think you did, but I can never be sure."

Aveline frowned at the exchange while Hawke held back and waved discreetly at the both of them. "Are you corrupting her mind again, Isabela?"

"It is a tabula rasa and I get to paint in my image!" She spun Merrill around to a collective gasp. An outfit, if it could be called that, identical to her own, hung upon her thin frame, hoisted up by the aforementioned inserts in a terrible caricature of herself.

Hawke broke into a snicker. "Oh Merrill, you look awful."

"That is ghastly!" Aveline was a picture of disgust, "What's the matter with you? Get the poor thing into some clothes!"

Isabela merely frowned. "What, she looks downright swashbuckling! Don't listen to them sweet thing, these two have no taste."

"It really doesn't fit me too well. I don't look anywhere near as nice as you." Merrill observed crestfallen as the corset slipped yet again, looking apologetically at Hawke as the latter stood shaking her head. Isabela circled around, inspecting her handiwork thoughtfully and tapped a finger on her chin.

"Maybe we need more padding up here," she considered.

"Why in the Maker's name would you want to look like that slattern?" Aveline came forward so she could loom over Merrill.

"But she looks so attractive, and everyone admires her and Hawke-," Merrill stopped short, "I just think it'd be nice to be looked at... like that... that's all." she finished, casting a rueful glance at Hawke.

"What I look like has nothing to do with any of that." Isabela stood with her hands on her hips, "It's about attitude and I'm as persistant as a whore. And anyway, you're not too shabby yourself, Kitten."

"You'd need a body suit to fit into Isabela's clothes and you don't want that," Hawke stated and turned around, her eyes wandering to a white muslin frock displayed on a mannequin. "Let's get Aveline out of that dreadful armour and into this." She gestured to it enthusiastically and everyone turned around to examine the find while Merrill struggled out of the pirate costume.

Their chatter was interrupted by a thin, high voice just then and they looked up to see Jean Luc glide into their company. "Ah! A most excellent selection, Mes dames!"

Jean Luc was Kirkwall's premier clothier and a man who wore many hats. He was slight of build and advancing in years, distinguished by the shock of white blonde hair sprouting in all directions from his beard and resplendent that day in an aqua shirt and charcoal leather pants that looked that they had been poured onto his legs.

It was rumoured that once he had been the personal couturier of a high-ranking Orlesian noblewoman and had been run out of Montsimmard by her jealous husband when it was discovered his designs on the lady extended beyond raiment, other stories held it had all happened the other way around. But regardless of his origins, it was an open secret that Jean Luc was a mage sympathiser and regularly enchanted his 'signature' creations for those customers who were of a magical bent.

"This beautiful thing is just arrived," – he pulled the dress off the display and held it for their inspection, " – for the summer line, feel the fabric, mes amies – the finest Antivan muslin."

Hawke ran her fingers through the material and her hereto noble intentions ran afoul at once. She pictured herself in the outfit receiving Saemus Dumar for high tea some balmy summer evening. Her imagination ran on ahead and there she was tucking a sprig of jasmine in her hair before Aveline's distraught expression summoned her back to the present.

"You'd look darling, in it!" She assured her friend, nodding at Isabela for reinforcement.

"No doubt about it," Isabela agreed, nodding sagely. "And with that fiery hair – why we could do some back combing, spruce it up, by golly you'd look like Andraste – with her head on fire!"

She erupted into cackles, Merrill snickering softly at her side, leaving Aveline to come back with the precisely worded, "Shut up, whore."

Monsieur Jean Luc pretended he had not heard any of it, "This is for you, Madam? Then may I suggest we go for a crisp apple green to complement your complexion, oui?" He dashed away to drag forth yards of pale green cloth in a variety of tones while Hawke talked Aveline into mounting the fitting pedestal.

Some hours later, the fitting was still in progress. Aveline perched awkwardly on the low circular platform while Jean Luc fussed about her with a length of tulle. Hawke was reclined in a chaise longue by the bay window, the books of Hubert's accounts open on a coffee table while Merrill pored over the neat rows of numbers curiously. Isabela held a profusion of osprey feathers in her arms that Aveline refused to even countenance.

"I will not strut about like a peacock. I'm Captain of the Guard."

"'A Montford without feathers in the flounces, 'tis an offense Madam!" Jean Luc protested, aghast, his Orlesian accent dripping with indignity.

"Oh? Kirkwall has very odd laws," said Merrill, making Hawke giggle.

"It means Aveline will have to grin and bear it," Isabela insisted, in a voice that brooked no argument.

"You can stuff it, not that you need any more encouragement!" Aveline could hardly be bullied into anything, much less a mermaid trail gown overflowing with feathers. With that, she tore off the yards of silk and tulle Jean Luc had pinned up all over her to his mounting horror and hopped off the platform, leaving him gasping on the verge of tears.

"No, you cannot, Madam! Oh, mon Dieu!" he wailed, clutching the ruined ruffles.

"Enough of this, I'll manage with the other two and that plain silk one for the evening." Aveline frowned at him.

Hawke sat up straight, nearly as appalled as Jean Luc at this turn of events, "But we're all wearing Montfords for the Ball." She gestured to Isabela, "Even her!"

"Me? Oh no. I like my legs unrestrained." Isabela tossed the feathers into the pile of discarded fabric over which the clothier was in mourning. "I'd have said yes to anything to get her to look like a big white hen!" She laughed wholeheartedly whilst Aveline glared.

"Shut up, whore."

Hawke shook her head uncertain whether to be upset she would be the only one in glorious fishtail or pleased. "I can't believe you all, I've been stabbed in the back all over again."

"Maybe Anders will do it," Merrill suggested helpfully, patting her forearm in genuine sympathy. "He wears feathers all the time."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

Click the yellow bubble and drop a word, or a sentence, please. Reviews make my day!


	6. 05 Assent

**Author's Note**

A huge shoutout of thanks to my beta **strangegibbon, **the exacting director of _MANCE_ who sure knows how to make a leading man rage!quit. Special thanks to **Fever Dream **and everyone who reviewed, pm'ed and added this story to their favourites and alerts. You guys are the best!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware.**

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>4. Assent<em>**

It had rained all night and when the sun emerged, it did so gently from behind scattering clouds. A strong breeze tugged along and the air was crisp and freshly laundered, fragrant with the scent of spring shower. It was a beautiful day, the sort that immediately inspired hope and optimism and as Marian leaned out of her bedroom window to take it in, she was caught by the impromptu resolution to do something constructive.

A short while later, she had stuffed herself into an old pair of trousers from the very back of her closet largely to prove that they still fit, pulled on stout Fereldan boots and commandeered the Estate courtyard for the morning's activity. The small square space was meant to pass for a garden, though it was paved and grassless and boasted only a few large urns of imported evergreens placed around the perimeter. It was guarded, however, from the prying eyes of the neighbours by the servants' wing and the back of the library and so despite Leandra's frantic protestations, Hawke felt reasonably secure about putting chalk to flagstone to practice her magic.

Magic flared around her in gusts and she squeezed her eyes tight, straining to uphold and mould the wild energy. It spun up, buffeting like an angry, invisible dust devil and she pictured the form in her head, using the image to impress her will upon it. She filled out the contours of the spinning rings and smoothed out the chaotic rotation until at last when she opened her eyes on an exhale, the magic was a pulsing arcane shield around her.

Sustaining it indefinitely was the real test however and as it continued to spin, she felt her reserves bottom out. Hawke inhaled, drawing in a long breath and felt beads of perspiration trickle along her forehead. Magic roared in her ears, and thrummed in her blood and she exhaled slowly, closing her eyes and willing her potential to stretch just a little more and then a little more.

"Wow, Hawke-" an awed voice suddenly broke through her concentration, Hawke frowned as her rapidly spinning shield wobbled on its axis but it didn't topple and that made her proud. "Did you do all this?"

"Your staff..." She said closing her eyes and concentrating on stabilising the shield while Merrill did as asked, in awe of the spellwork.

Once the staff was drawn Hawke reached for her own and as it came to life, so did the one in her friend's grasp. Both instruments frosted over, becoming slick with condensation and shedding tiny snowflakes that floated daintily to the ground.

"It's snowing! But...it's an earth staff! How did you- ?"

"Magic!" Hawke said smugly. She drew in a long breath to fortify herself, talking was further taxing her stamina. "Do you feel the shield?"

"Oh! Yes, yes now I do." Merrill brushed her fingers against the invisible whirlwind that had suddenly encompassed her. "And this writing on the ground, is it like those glyphs that Anders makes?"

Hawke shook her head, gritting her teeth against the exertion. "No, Force Magic. Walk towards me."

Merrill took a step, crossing one chalk inscription and then another, a frown blooming upon her face as she advanced. Halfway through, she let out a gasp of breath, heaving with exertion. "I can't move- I feel too heavy!"

"Do it," she insisted, clenching her fists as the strain increased.

The girl's thin body vibrated with effort but she doggedly progressed, gasping and groaning until her feet inched over the innermost ring. Hawke's eyes flew open as that threshold was crossed and she drew up her arm. The power coursing through the concentric chalk channels suddenly surged upwards and when she unclenched her fist, it released- slamming back into the ground in a spectacular shockwave. With a scream, Merrill was flattened, crushed into the flagstone and Hawke staggered backwards from the recoil.

It was a few moments before either stirred.

"Merrill!" Hawke rolled over and crawled to her side, "Oh Maker! I am so sorry. Are you all right?" She leaned over the prone elf and patted her cheeks.

Merrill groaned, slowly coming to, "I think my insides just exploded."

Hawke winced sheepishly, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that!" This was only partially true. She hadn't planned a live test but when the opportunity presented itself so readily she had taken advantage of it without a second thought. She felt Merrill over for injuries, guilt gnawing at her uncomfortably even if it was after the fact.

"It isn't so bad." Merrill blinked back tears of pain and made to sit up.

"Shall I kiss it better?" Hawke pushed her back down, rifling quickly through her pile of vials for an elfroot potion. Once in hand, she unstoppered it quickly and tipped it to Merrill's lips. "Lie still a moment." She wrapped her arms gently around the girl and kissed her on the temple and cheek, stroking her fingers through the tight braids in her hair.

Merrill's face blossomed into a smile that began in the depths of her huge eyes and lit up her whole face. She clasped Marian's hand and they held the embrace for several minutes while the analgesic did its work.

"You are so nice to me, Hawke," She said recovering slowly, basking in Marian's guilty, smothering tenderness, "I think you are the sweetest and the most wonderful person I've ever known."

Had it been from anyone else, Hawke would have suspected sarcasm but Merrill was guileless. Instead, she chided herself for her own thoughtlessness and clutched her tighter, peppering her face with kisses and murmuring 'I'm sorry' over and over.

"What kind of magic was that?" Merrill wanted to know a few minutes later once she had sufficiently recuperated. She sat up, crossed her legs and inspected the angry welts that mottled her limbs. "I've got so many bruises now they have names and families."

Hawke draped her arms around her thin frame, leaning her chin against a gaunt shoulder affectionately. "I've been making a study of force theory – there are four different kinds apparently." She replied, nodding at the still open tome pages fluttering in the breeze. "But maybe I need extra coaching," she finished ruefully.

Merrill patted her leg, "Don't be too hard on yourself. I was supposed to water a herb garden during a drought once and cast a lightning storm instead. There was no food in the camp for a whole week."

Hawke laughed softly and placed a kiss on her cheek. "I'd just like to not get knifed next time I'm walking home drunk."

"Oh, don't joke about that - it was horrible! I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

"Get bruised up less?"

"You could learn a fire spell or an earth one – I could teach you to conjure rock armor."

"I'm no good with flames or mud. The last time I was in the kitchen, Sandal had to scrape omelette off the ceiling and I _hate_ getting dirt on my clothes." Hawke shook her head. "Besides, it should teach me not to rely on mana enhancements all the time and then leave them at home."

"Oh, is that what happened to you?" Merrill turned around and looked her in the eyes, growing even more serious.

"You know what they say about wine and impotency."

The quip glanced off Merrill who looked very thoughtful for a long moment and then she took Hawke's hand, turning it over so her palm was visible.

"You don't have to depend on that, you know. I could show you another way. You're very strong, you'd be just fine."

Hawke leaned back and regarded the elf with a mix of horror and fascination, her face blank and expressionless while her heart raced. She grew aware of the blood pulsing in her veins and involuntarily stole a glance at the faint blue lines that weaved underneath her skin, repulsed and drawn in equal measure.

Though labelled an apostate, Malcolm Hawke had always endeavoured to live by Andraste's wisdom and between him and Leandra, all the children had been raised in the faith. Moral repugnance to what Merrill suggested with such practical calmness was something as natural to her as breathing or invoking the name of the Maker. It was the very embodiment of evil magic and the bigger part of her recoiled at the thought, a shudder slinking down her spine. Yet Hawke was no longer the girl she had been in Lothering. So many principles, painstakingly instilled by parents and school and Chantry had fallen by the wayside as life marched on unrelenting. What was one more? Clearly Merrill was not evil – she was gentle and kind, more so than most Chant-thumpers Hawke could name.

"Shall I show you?" Merrill continued. She shifted position so she was kneeling in front of her and drew a small bone dagger from her boot, pressing the sharp point into the middle of Marian's palm.

Hawke watched the blade glint, poised on the verge of drawing blood and yet she could not find her voice. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat and her ears hummed with white noise. It felt like one of those defining moments, Hawke could almost perceive how her life could fork from that moment on, in two divergent paths and she could only choose one.

And then the moment vanished, Hawke had delayed too long in choosing and Merrill took her hesitation for assent. The blade slid forward, there was a sharp prick and blood welled in the middle of her hand, brilliant and scarlet against the whiteness of her skin. She was enraptured.

"It's not hard at all. Tap into it, like you would for lyrium."

Hawke resisted but as the drop of blood swelled, its power called to her, the immense potential ensconced within begging to be unleashed. Her resolve teetered on the edge. She thought of the strain on her willpower only minutes ago as she struggled to eke out the tiniest quantum of power. Her mind travelled back to the night of the attack – the dread and desperation, the fear of believing her life was over, the warm thick trickle of blood rolling down the dip of her spine. She thought of that awful moment when Bethany lay dying, her precious, potent lifeblood seeping into the hard, blighted soil. She thought of Wesley and of Lothering, her friends cut down or ripped apart, a dark pool of blood all that remained of their lives. Was it not the ink with which her life story was scribbled, was her destiny not drenched in red? How then could she refuse to embrace it now?

There it was, tingling, thrumming with unmetered potential if only she would grasp it.

"No." She shook her head, scarcely believing the word that left her mouth, regret and dismay already clawing at her resolve. "No, I don't think should." She shook her head more vigorously, as if to shake off the voices of dissent in her mind. There were some lines that should not be crossed, some boundaries she wanted to respect just so she could assure herself she was still good at the core. "Fenris would become so broody, he'd brood me on fire and then dance on the pyre, broodily! Varric says he's been practicing."

Merrill giggled, but she was disappointed. Hawke wiped the trickle of blood off reluctantly and stood, offering the other girl a hand. She leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"So what did you want to see me for?"

"I want to buy nug tallow."

"What? I don't have any of that. There are no nugs in Kirkwall!"

"Oh I know that! Anders said there's a dwarf merchant in Darktown who sells some, I wanted to go see him but Varric wouldn't let me. He said that Fenris has declared himself Defender of Mages and we mustn't go anywhere without him. I was hoping you'd come with me. He's very sullen all the time and I don't want to spend the whole day with no one but him for company."

Hawke threw her head back and laughed, "Oh goodness, Varric does go on. I'm afraid he was pulling your leg, it's nothing like that. Why do you need nug tallow anyway?"

"It's the best type of grease – for my mirror, I mean - to clean it. It doesn't react to magic."

"How is that project coming along?"

"Oh, it's still very dirty."

Hawke tipped her head. "Well, _we _should get cleaned up and get some breakfast." She collected her book and the vials and started towards the house.

Bodahn was striding forward purposefully just as she entered the kitchen. "Madam-" He began pompously but Hawke cut him off.

"Could you get Sandal to wash down the courtyard? It wouldn't do to have the house raided by Templars over graffiti."

"Of course, Madam. May I report that Guard Captain Aveline Vallen is in attendance with Lady Amell."

"Lady Amell now, is it?" Hawke said, lifting an eyebrow in amusement at her mother's latest eccentricity.

"I speak only as bid, Messere." Bodahn replied primly.

"Very well then, I'll go see what _Lady Amell_ and Aveline are up to."

Hawke found Aveline in the main hall a little while later, standing in the centre of the room and gazing up at the vaulted ceiling where a new chandelier glittered, catching the morning sun.

"I see you've settled in nicely." She gestured to the latest of Leandra's home improvements.

"Oh this old thing? Gamlen wanted Mother to take it off his hands - it clashed with the shabby chic he's got going at the hovel." Hawke glanced at the elaborate wrought iron hanging as she leaned over the balustrade.

"Indeed. Still, more coin never hurts, right?" Marian nodded, vaguely wondering where her friend was headed, the faintest stirring of misgivings beginning already. For Aveline to be hedging about in that fashion meant that whatever her purpose, Hawke would find it less than pleasant.

"Say, if someone wanted to pass some work your way..." She continued hesitantly as Hawke descended the stairs.

"Please tell me this will be fun."

"Someone's trying to be a guard. Poorly. Remember Emeric? The Templar?" Aveline noted Hawke's expression at that and hurried onwards before she had the chance to slither out of it. "He wants your help and some sort of official sanction." Hawke raised an eyebrow. "For his investigation. He's convinced every random murder in Kirkwall in the last few years is connected, and he won't be quiet."

Hawke didn't respond immediately. One did not forget a mystery that involved missing women, a cache of severed hands, a distraught husband, a beguiling elven lover and an aging templar convinced it was all part of a greater conspiracy. There was nothing comforting in the thought that the matter was not yet dead record. "Seems like it should be easy to prove if there are bodies. You don't think it's worth investigating?"

"I have. He even convinced one of my men to raid the DuPuis mansion. Nothing there. You won't believe how much ass I had to kiss after that." She grumbled. "Bloody hobbyist constable – why can't he spend his declining years building a boat or something?" She shook her head.

"So I go muzzle the geezer, got it!"

"I would never say that. But if it leads somewhere genuine—" Hawke's attention had wavered as Merrill entered the room.

"Is Aveline coming with us?" She asked smiling.

"Where are you both headed?" Aveline turned back to Hawke.

"To visit Anders, I made a cake for him." Aveline cast her doubt on that assertion with a slight lift of her brow and Hawke capitulated, "— well, Mother did; she thinks it's for you, don't you tell her otherwise!"

"What's the occasion?" Aveline continued warily.

"His birthday!" Interjected Merrill, with a clap of her hands. "It is, isn't it?" Her glee when she was particularly proud of her deductions was infectious.

Hawke shook her head and smiled back. "It's a thank you for-stitching-my-innards-back-inside present and a bribe, all in one. I am hoping to get out of some mage business play date he's planned. I can't be dragged all the way across the harbour to the Gallows – it's too windy! My hair will be ruined for the rest of the week."

"Well that's convenient. Ser Emeric is in the Gallows so I think I'll tag along. Thanks Hawke, I appreciate it."

Hawke relented with a sigh, all her reluctance thus summarily dismissed.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Best part? Favourite line? Drop me a word and let me know!**


	7. 06 Dissent

**Author's Note**

Many, many thanks to **strangegibbon**, my beta who conscientiously reads through each draft I put out, hunting down rogue apostrophes and outlaw punctuation and is a constant source of inspirational smut and jolly good times.

Special thanks to everyone who reviewed and shared their thoughts. You make all this effort worthwhile. Thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites.

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware_._**

The story is rated T but this chapter takes a detour through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>6. Dissent<em>**

Hawke had expected the afternoon would pass pleasantly enough in the company of friends, with cake, laughter, sun and sea galore, perhaps even leaving time to squeeze in a second dress fitting at _Jean Luc's_ if her hair wasn't too gritty. Instead she slunk into the house past midnight, ragged and splattered with blood and slime. The templar, Otto Alrik was dead and with him, hopefully his diabolical 'Tranquil Solution' but it had come at a high price.

Anders had nearly lost control of the Spirit Justice that resided inside him and unleashed it's vengeance upon the remaining templars, even threatening the victim. Only Hawke's intervention had spared the young mage's life and sent her on the run from the Circle - advice that had been bitterly contested. Aveline suffered a torn ligament and would be spending the night under medical observation. Anders was devastated, Fenris was angry, Hawke was drenched in blood that was not her own and her hands continued to shake hours later from stress and exhaustion.

"Is Donnic with Aveline now?" Hawke finally asked as they neared the Estate, Fenris shadowing her like a ghost. She looked over her shoulder reflexively to make sure he was still there.

He had been silent again and she hated it. She didn't think she would ever get used to confronting Templars – bogeymen of her childhood. There was such a primal, deep-rooted dread of them and what they had faced today was a consolidation of the blackest campfire tales whispered among apostate mages belched up into reality.

"He was by her side when I left," he replied. She had stayed behind with Anders while he took Aveline to the Circle.

"How sweet, the two will give me diabetes by the end of the year." She added and stopped, realising that they had reached the mansion and she would be left alone with her fears in a few minutes. Aveline had Donnic, she wouldn't be alone.

"You are a mess." He reached to wipe a smear of blood off her cheek with his thumb but it turned out to be an abrasion. "You should have stayed behind me like I told you to." He withdrew his arm and turned around to leave. "I'll see you later."

"Wait." Before she registered what she was doing, her hand was on his arm. Her fingers brushed against the lyrium under his skin and a shiver streaked down her spine. "How about a nightcap? A little wine, I think there's cheese in the larder. All the excitement has given me an appetite!" She slid closer until she could breathe in the heat of him. "Fenris..." her eyes darkened, _stay with me _and she wouldn't need to leave the door unlocked for Anders.

"Your pet abomination nearly slaughtered that woman. And thanks to you there's a frightened mage on the loose capable of who knows what so you'll forgive me if I'm not in the mood."

Hawke yanked her hand off him, boiling up in anger. "But he didn't! He didn't! You can hardly blame him after what we saw back there!" She shook with rage. "She had a name - Ella. You'd rather I sent her back - you know what they were doing to those women! You saw it for yourself!" She spat. "How can you stand there and not feel a thing?"

_It could have been me_, her mind added silently. She wrenched the door open and marched inside the house, letting it slam shut behind her.

In proper light, the torn shreds of her clothing besmirched with dried blood was indelible proof of the night's horrors and she was glad the lateness of the hour probably meant Leandra had long since retired to bed.

"Orana!" She sat down on the bench in the foyer and pulled off her boots. "Orana! Come here quickly!"

There was no movement. The house stood utterly still and all she could hear was the fireplace crackling in the main hall. For a minute or two she sat rubbing her feet. It was such a relief to be off them.

"Orana! Get in here!" She walked to the edge of the foyer contemplating whether or not she was willing to drip blood, sewage and Maker knew what else on her mother's favourite double-knotted Antivan in the bid to reach her quarters. "Orana! Where is that girl?"

Her mind continued to replay events. The terrified girl begging for mercy, her voice so plaintive and pathetic, it sickened her soul. The templar standing over her, brand in hand, Alrik gloating over what he had been doing to the young women - destroying their will so they could no longer refuse his perversions. She felt bile rise up in her throat. Not for the first time that night, the spectre of her dead sister floated through her mind. She fought the irrational urge to double bolt the door even though it would hardly keep out a raid. She sat holding her head and fighting off the cloying insecurity that had followed her inside her own walls.

It was not a new fear but an old one, the constant weight of imminent danger that burdened her earliest memories – fleeing city to city, town to town, always doubting friends and neighbours, always fearing the next moment, trusting no one. It had faded considerably over the years but tonight it was returned with a vengeance. What was she doing in a city rife with templars anyway? Her father would have had a stroke. And Carver - Maker, he was one of them. He didn't remember those dark days as well as she, nor had Bethany. She had made sure her sister had had a childhood even at the cost of her own, taught herself to retreat into an inner well so deep it was an effort to climb back out, all so Bethany could remain whole. A memory darkened her thoughts, the ghost of a face, gnarled and wrinkled and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing it back into the recesses of her mind, rocking herself back and forth. She wished angrily that Fenris had stayed, that he had understood her need. She missed the strength of his arms. _The Damned fool._

Finally, there was sound of movement from the servants' area and the patter of feet along the tiled stone as someone hastened through the corridors. "Orana!"

"Mistress, I'm sorry, I fell asleep waiting for you."

"Maker take you! I've been yelling for an hour. Get me out of these clothes – fetch a robe from the laundry – don't get a clean one, there's no point – and get a bath going. Is Mother asleep?" Relief came cascading and she couldn't staunch the tirade that flowed along with it. She started tugging herself out of the tattered garments while Orana scrambled to comply with her demands. "Is Sandal asleep? Wake him up. He has to clean this. It won't do to let Mother see it." She glanced at the puddles of filth spotting the entrance in disgust as Orana wrapped her up in a terry cloth robe.

The girl worked in silence with precise efficiency, paying no heed to Marian's continued rant until she had settled her into a warm, soapy bath with a glass of wine. Orana's deft fingers worked out the tension in her neck and shoulders and washed the blood and dirt out of her hair until she had fallen quiet and contemplative.

The clock in the main hall below struck off another hour and Hawke stirred, setting down her empty goblet and stretching. She was almost herself again.

"I think I'm done now, you should get some rest too." Her transformed mood was the most sincere praise Orana could receive. "You're Maker sent, you know. Some days, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Thank you, Mistress."

She stepped out of the claw-footed bathtub and shrugged into her housecoat, drying her hair before the roaring bedroom hearth while Orana tidied up._ Sod him,_ she told herself resolutely.

"Will you be retiring to bed now, Mistress?" She asked once everything else was squared away.

"No, I'll stay up a bit longer. You can go back to bed. Don't lock the front door, I might be expecting – I'll get it myself later." She amended on second thought, as Orana withdrew with a slight dip of her head.

She took her wine to the desk in the corner of the room and sat down to divert herself with writing, the soft scratching of quill against parchment and the crackle of embers as surely soothing as the wine. _It's his loss anyway. To Void with him._

Not long after, she heard a firm report on the door and the hinges creaking as it swung open. She blotted and closed her journal, and walked over to wait by the fire, listening to the sound of the determined tread as he made his way across the landing. She could picture the long, resolute strides that would be propelling him. If there was one thing to say for Anders, it would be that he did not equivocate. When he embraced something he did so completely and without hesitation, burning bridges in his wake if needed and unlike Fenris he had always been clear about his feelings. Marian knew that he would give her exactly what she desired – complete and utter devotion and she wanted it badly, if only for one night.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said as he entered her bedroom. It was a little lie, offered so he would think she had been standing here waiting for him, wringing her hands in uncertainty, unsure of whether he would think her worthy of his time.

"Justice doesn't approve of my obsession with you. He believes you are a distraction. It is one of the few things on which he and I disagree." A frisson of thrill ran through her and she smiled, enjoying the sight of him reacting to her salvo. It was a dance she loved and she knew all the steps, when to dip, when to sway, when to twirl, when to smile, when to pout, when to laugh, when to frown. It was magical in its own right; it was power and it was hers.

"So he's kind of an unwilling participant in our threesome?" She jested. He would hate the thought and the need to claim her would follow it, heating his blood as surely as if he were truly amenable to the suggestion.

"Please don't call it that," he said a little forlornly, Hawke suppressed a sigh. "Are you sure you want me here? I thought you and Fenris... or did the beast finally turn on you?" Ill-timed, that reviled demon called Jealousy raised its baleful head and demanded appeasement.

"I only see you here." She obliged. Fenris be damned, it was his own fault he wasn't here. How long did he expect her to wait for him. He wasn't the only one with pride.

"When I was in the Circle, love was only a game. It gave the Templars too much power if there was something you couldn't stand to lose. It would kill me to lose you."

"This isn't going to fix that." She hoped the statement was sufficiently noncommittal to convey her level of investment in the relationship. She was offered no solutions, only a distraction to dull the horrors of the day.

"No mage I know has ever dared to fall in love. This is the rule I will most cherish breaking."

He was always so tediously dramatic. She turned so her body aligned with his, and he grasped the subtle invitation, killing the distance between them. His mouth sought hers and she gave into its caress, his lips passionate and gentle. Slowly he drew around her body like a comforter and Hawke pulled him into bed, eagerly skimming over any remaining rituals of courtship as she trailed wet presses of her lips along his jaw. Talk was not what she needed, what she needed was for him to make her forget, deliver on the promise made with that kiss in Darktown. He eased over her body gently, taking her face in his hands and laying soft kisses on her forehead, then each of her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, sliding over her cheeks to her mouth as his hands explored everywhere, his touch every bit as reverent as Sebastian supplicant before Andraste.

Hawke twisted her head to respond in kind, but he threaded his fingers into her forelocks to hold her still. "Stop. Let me make love to you like you deserve." His gaze poured over her like honey, sweet and thick, coaxing her to surrender.

"Lie back and think of the mages?" She joked and he gave her a smile, pulling her head back to lengthen the arch of her neck which he nuzzled and attended to with the same thoroughness.

By the time he was done with her throat and reaching the swell of her breasts Hawke was writhing beneath him, panting and clutching at the feathery shoulders of his overcoat. She arched her back as his fingers gingerly picked the wrapping off her body, thrashing impatiently against him and he freed a hand to clasp behind one knee and part her thighs, grinding her into the mattress with his pelvis.

With renewed ardour, she braced her legs and pushed herself upright, taking his face in her hands and assaulting his mouth. "So impatient," he chuckled and kissed her back, for a while attempting to ease her back beneath him. In the end he relented, drawing her legs around his waist and they sat entwined, ministering to each other until they keened with need. Then swiftly he entered her and she came undone, cresting on the waves of release and arching backwards. He smothered her with his mouth and before she knew it he had her on her back as he wanted, over and over until they were both spent.

Later, she lay recovering in his arms, his fingers stroking through her hair, along the planes of her cheeks and the column of her throat. He nuzzled her, buried his nose in her hair and held her folded in his arms, very near purring like the cats he adored. He kissed her hair, brushing his fingers down her spine and Marian had the sudden and startling realisation that he was perfectly and utterly content. He was happy, holding her slick, sated and thoroughly satisfied until she wanted him again. He would stay with her in bed until they were ready to sleep and when she woke in the morning, he would be there stirring beside her.

She raised her head and stared at him, his eyes heavy lidded and kind. He smiled at her, brushing his thumb over the bruise on her cheek and there was no duality in it. She knew he wasn't thinking of looking for his clothes or how late it had gotten or how much longer he should wait until it was appropriate to uncoil himself from around her. For a moment she saw herself reflected in his eyes – perfect, beautiful, extraordinary and utterly lovely – a bounty of nature, as glorious as the sunset upon the Waking Sea and as delicate as a snowflake.

And suddenly his warm embrace was a hot prison, the comforting weight of his body an oppressive burden and his generous affection intolerably stifling. She wondered where her robes had fallen, when the hall clock would strike next and whether it had been long enough to disengage politely.

Guiltily avoiding eye contact, she eased out of his arms and slipped into her clothes, reaching to pour herself a glass of water from the table across the room as an excuse to put some distance between them. When that was exhausted, she stood before the fire warming her fingers against the flames.

She heard him approach and they spoke at the same time.

"Want a sandwich?" She really did feel peckish, and then chided herself immediately, reminded of the trousers that had resisted buttoning around her waist that morning.

"I love you."

She froze.

"You will be an inspiration to generations of romantic poets," he chuckled, cradling her and turning her around so he could see her face."I've been holding back from saying that. You should have a normal life, not be tied down to a fugitive with no future."

Hawke drew in a deep breath. That, right there, was something on which they could both agree. She had no intention of being tied down.

"But I don't ever want to leave you," he said earnestly.

Hawke cringed, mouth twisting in an incredulous smile. Love was a strong word and very loaded and there he was tossing it at her like a beach ball. She retreated from him but he grasped her hands, drawing her into him again, trapping her.

"So not to bring up anything unpleasant, but the Templars were sniffing around my place yesterday," he started. "It's possible I may need somewhere else to go. In the future, would here be an option?" Hawke's inner voice chanted _No, no, no, no._ She fought the urge to shake her head vigorously.

"Way to kill the romance!" She countered. Was he really expecting to move in with her after one night? She couldn't believe it. The terrifying picture of her hat cupboard invaded by mewling kittens sobered her right up. If Fenris commanded a room, Anders spilled all over it, getting into everything. He was a sweetheart and she liked him but in small doses or when he was naked and not talking.

"I thought you might appreciate not having to step over drunkards in Darktown every time you wanted to see me. What do you say?" She would appreciate not having to hunt down copies of his manifesto tucked into the unlikeliest of places each time he visited a lot more as a matter of fact.

Hawke drew a fortifying breath, pulling her hands free. It was time to rip the band aid as Aveline would say. She longed for a shot of something cold, neat and hard. "I'm not ready for that kind of commitment." _Or any kind of commitment. Ever._

"What?" He blurted in shock. Her face mirrored his expression, surprised that he had expected a different answer.

"Sorry, you just weren't _that_ good." His performance was adequate and it had been obvious that she was well sated when they finished; she even liked him but Anders himself could never tip the scales against the weight of his demands.

"You're breaking up with me?"

He really was quite outrageous. It was all she could do to stop herself from laughing out loud. It was one night, nothing more. "I... we talked about this. Everything you said – you used me." His face contorted in pain, she saw his heart break into pieces and yet his expectations were so ridiculous she could not bring herself to feel sorry for him. "I won't forget this."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Click the yellow bubble and drop a line. I love feedback and chocolate, who doesn't?**


	8. Testimonies: Bethany

**Bethany**

"Today was Harvest Day and a grand time was had by all.

I am ever so grateful to Elder Miriam for the wonderful honeyed cakes she brought for all the children in school. It was a wonderful geschure _[sic]_. My best friend Lily and I, gathered flowers during recess to express our appresiation_ [sic]_ and presented a posy to Elder Miriam as a thank you gift.

In the afternoon we went to the Green for the Fair and had a wonderful time. There were games and compititions _[sic]_ and I had a lot of fun taking part in the acivity. My favourite game was the Treasure Hunt. Even though I lost, I am very happy for my sister who was able to find all the hidden prizes. My brother was sad that he did not win, but I said that we should be happy when our friends win too.

Sadly, Carver, is not very friendly with my elder sister and says that she is meen _[sic]._ I do not agree with him in this. Sometimes, she is cross with us and I wish that she would not yell so much when we do something wrong but she is very protective of me.

Like last week, when Jarven from Master Harman's farm called me a witch and other nasty things and said he would tell the Chantry Sisters that father was a bad man running from the law, she promised to speak to him. Jarven said sorry the next day and we are all friends now.

My sister's friend Samuel Wilker won the boxing torny _[sic]_ and Carver came in second place. Master Barlin, the torney refree_ [sic]_ thought Carver had improved a lot and would difinately _[sic]_ win next year when he is bigger. I hope so too.

Mistress Elsie Galaher _[sic]_ won the pumpkin show and ..."

_- Extract from a school essay written by Bethany Hawke, age 10._


	9. 07 Reparation

**Author's Note**

I can't thank my beta **strangegibbon **enough for her endless patience and the painstaking effort she pours into this month after month, but I can take my virtual hat off, for making me giggle like over slash like a 12 year old, here's to you - you're the best!

Many, many thanks to everyone who read and and added to their favourites and alerts, and to those who reviewed - you make my day!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it, belongs to **Bioware**.

This story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>07. Reparation<strong>_

It was two weeks before the Spring Pageant when all of Hightown was set to emerge in its grandest finery to celebrate the end of Kirkwall's wet, dreary winter. It was the biggest social event of the year and both Leandra and Marian had been anticipating it for the better part of one, eagerly counting down the days on their respective calendars. Leandra was full of nostalgic fervour, wistfully regaling Marian, Bodahn, Orana or really anyone who would listen with accounts of the event from her youth. As her mother had attended not more than four Spring balls between her debut and elopement, the number of stories was limited and they had been repeated so often that everyone in the house could recite her favourite portions verbatim. With merely a fortnight left Leandra's excitement was at a fever pitch and there was scarcely talk of anything else.

"It was the spring of '05 I remember, when the Princess of Starkhaven attended our Pageant," Leandra reminisced animatedly, "- your late mother, Maker rest her soul. Oh, how she glowed that evening! Your Highness has her eyes."

Their guest lowered the delicate porcelain teacup cradled in his long fingered hands and cleared his throat politely, "I prefer Sebastian, please."

Marian uncurled from her end of the loveseat, refilled his cup and her mother's, throwing him a conspiratorial wink whilst Leandra flustered. "I'm sorry! How remiss of me, my old habits are so hard to overcome sometimes."

Sebastian's impeccable manners were called to test and he quickly dipped his mouth in scalding tea to prevent himself from betraying amusement at her airs. Hawke grinned unabashedly and Leandra continued oblivious.

"Or was it '06, perhaps?" She mused.

"'05 for certain. I was born right before spring the next year and Mother was still recovering." Sebastian offered helpfully.

"Oh you were a spring baby? What a sweet thing. My dear Marian was a lively summer baby. I had her in my arms some three years later, such a beautiful little thing." She turned to regard Hawke only as a mother could, or a horse-breeder trotting out his finest filly.

"She has you to thank for that." He glanced at Hawke with a polite, hesitant smile.

"Oh, you're too kind!" Leandra was thoroughly charmed. "Marian will be a debutante, this year," she continued thoughtfully, "so I will have to attend as chaperone."

Hawke put a hand over her mouth and coughed to suppress a snicker.

"And who knows, maybe in a year or two I will have another beautiful baby to hold."

"Mother!" A laugh finally burst out before Hawke could stop it. "How you do go on!"

Sebastian looked down, momentarily distracted by something at the bottom of his cup, the apples of his cheeks suddenly ruddier than usual.

"Will you be attending the Ball in the evening, Sebastian?" Hawke steered the conversation back.

"If I manage to return from Ostwick in time, I may after all."

Leandra looked aghast. "What do you mean? Are you not going to be in Kirkwall?"

"I am afraid I have to be abroad, my lady."

"But-" She had laid down her cup and looked as though they might as well have cancelled the whole thing.

Marian was already aware that this was a possibility and wore her disappointment more discreetly. She lamented not having him to wear on her arm for a dance or two; he would have been the perfect accessory for the waltz but nothing could wear down her excitement for a party of such importance - not Isabela and Aveline's refusal to conform to her dress code and certainly not this either.

"I leave tomorrow at first light. I called to beg your leave, in fact." He looked apologetically at Leandra, slightly baffled his absence from town was making the older woman so wretched.

"Oh," Leandra said resignedly. "By all means. If it's more important than the Spring Pageant it can't be put off, surely."

"I may have a lead about my parents' murder, I'm sure you understand that it cannot wait."

"Of course, dear boy. You, poor thing. That was such a great misfortune for us all." She nodded sympathetically, recovering slowly.

Hawke leaned forward to offer more tea but he surrendered his cup. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company this afternoon but I must check in with the Grand Cleric before she retires for the evening."

"It is always so lovely to have you over. Do give dearest Elthina my fondest," said Leandra.

"Kirkwall will sorely miss you at the gala," Hawke rose to her feet fluidly while Sebastian manoeuvred his polished, gilded self carefully out of the delicate Orlesian rococo parlour chair. "For good luck." - she said and planted a quick peck on his cheek.

She glanced back at her mother who failed to keep a buoyant smile from lighting up her face.

"Oh!" Sebastian fumbled, caught by surprise and the blush that Hawke was beginning to find rather endearing appeared again. "Thank you. I'll visit again when I return."

"You must call on us as soon as you do, dear child." Leandra offered her hand and he bent over it gallantly.

Marian walked him to the door and waved him off from the stoop, watching as he rode off towards the Chantry.

When she returned, Leandra was grilling Bodahn over the evening mail again. "Are you quite positive? Did you check under the flower pot? Sometimes things slip behind it."

"Of course, Messere. It will be on your table the moment it is received," he reassured her for _n_th time.

Hawke shook her head and quickly rifled through the stack of letters laid on the reception table for anything of import. To say her mother was tense would be an understatement. She was kettle, keening on the boil, ready to explode any moment and there had been quite a few close calls already.

"Daughter," Marian sighed and leaned against the table, lending one ear to her mother's woes as she tore open an envelope. "Maybe you could ask Aveline to take it up with the Seneschal. Everyone in the neighbourhood has received theirs, it's getting to be worrisome."

"Relax, Mother. It'll get here when it needs to. Aveline is going out of her mind right now with security arrangements; she's no time to chase down wayward invitations."

She unfolded the letter to find Hubert's weekly balance report enclosed within and glanced over the rows of numbers, tallying the figures with her expectations. By the time, she neared the last few columns, a slight frown was marring her forehead which Leandra noted and objected to at once.

"Don't pucker up your brow, Marian. How many times must I tell you, it'll give you frown lines."

Hawke made a noncommittal sound as she went through the figures a second time and found no reason to discard the furrow in question.

"I must see Varric tonight."

"Right now? But it's nearly dark - remember what happened before - and the weather is changing. You'll catch a cold and it won't do at all."

But Hawke was unconcerned. "Donnic should be taking the Lowtown patrol at dusk, I'll accompany him. Bodahn, take this message to him at once." She scribbled down a few lines and handed the note over. "Don't worry about me Mother and don't wait up."

A huge plywood figure strung up by the ankle swung over the door to the Hanged Man tavern in the centre of Lowtown, blowing about lightly in the breeze. Despite being suspended upside down, it gave an air of sedate ennui as if hanging around outside the inn was a shade better than anything else it could be doing. It was an appropriate trademark for the only watering hole where everyone from the poor end of Kirkwall in possession of two coppers to rub together congregated to forget their misery.

In the gilded, baroque halls of the _Blooming Rose_ the wealthy amused themselves with every indulgence and entertainment their coin could buy. By contrast, the patrons inside the Hanged Man found their amusement in lack, partaking of the horrible ale and revolting gruel from chipped, grimy utensils served by indifferent wenches; in sloshing drink and dodging flying dishware whenever a gambling table erupted into a brawl.

Yet within that, there was something lively and bohemian. It was undeterred by want and glimpsed in the camaraderie known only to those who have nothing more to lose. It was the bad poet perched on a rickety barstool, penning awful verse in praise of beauty and grace his object of love would never possess and in the pursed lips of the man wagering all the coin he owned on a bad hand of cards. It was in the paranoid ramblings of the philosopher lush convinced life was the universe playing a game with humanity and the furtive alertness in the eyes of the petty fugitive or apostate huddled in the corner. It was hope, imperishable, which refused the immutability of fate; the coin tossed over and over again on the faith that some day it would land on its edge.

Amongst this crush of seedy proletariat, people wore the history of their lives on their faces. There were the rowdy sailors on shore-leave with ruddy, sun-baked faces and scurvy rotted teeth and the grim, watchful gaze of the coterie setting them apart in the crowd; the foundry workers, tough and muscled but withered inside, rattling for breath on poisoned lungs and the wily, clever expressions of Bazaar hawkers examining every penny of the change.

Hawke pushed through the jostling crowd, ignoring the snide catcalls and come-ons, swatting off venturing fingers, her coin purse clutched securely in hand, towards the bar, where Isabela could often be found. She raised herself on tiptoe, craning her neck to spot a familiar face but met with no success.

"Long time Hawke, haven't seen you here in a while." The bartender Corff approached, leaning forward on the counter.

"It's been hectic," she nodded. "What's the word on the street?

"They're saying that all the best floats from the Spring Pageant this year will be put up in the Fair Ground the next day and the common folk will get to have a look for three copper each."

"Ah! Seneschal Bran's cost cutting genius, what's not to love? Have you seen any of my people in today?"

"Aye, they're all in the back with Varric – big game on tonight."

"Do they have a dog in there? I haven't seen him home in days."

"Yup! A big 'ol Fereldan mutt."

"That's the one." Hawke sighed, shaking her head with a chuckle. "All right, I'm going to go back there and set them all straight." She set a silver on the counter and waded back into the crowd towards Varric's den.

The living quarters at the back of the tavern were much quieter than the main hall and as Hawke strode toward the relatively lavish suite that Varric called home, she could make out from the commotion spilling into the corridor that tempers were flaring as purses grew thin. There was Isabela's shrill delight as yet another round of coppers spilled into her lap and Varric's grumbling as he calculated his next wager.

She had her hand on the door when she heard an unexpected voice and stopped to listen.

"Is there even a point to this? I'm just going to fold. I always have the worst possible hand." Hawke heard Anders say.

"Oh cheer up, Blondie. You're making me cry just lookin' at you."

"He has no reason to be cheerful," spoke another. Hawke felt a sliver of thrill in the pit of her stomach and sighed resignedly.

"Don't." It was Anders again, a note of warning in his voice.

"You made a mistake. It happens," Varric cajoled.

"I almost killed a girl."

"I seem to recall you saying something a while ago..." There it was again.

Hawke leaned against the door to listen, not wanting to interrupt. She had planned to call upon Anders after the debacle that night but kept putting it off and now it was upon her and she was unprepared for a confrontation with not only Fenris as witness, but Varric and Isabela as well.

"Shut up." Anders snapped.

"You've killed two hundred and fifty four by my last count. Plus about five hundred men, a few dozen giant spiders," It was Varric, trying to reason through hyperbole. "and at least two demons." He added in a pointed voice that was obviously meant to dissuade Fenris.

"'I can control it' – wasn't that what you said?" He was not dissuaded.

"So help me!" Anders finally exploded.

There was a clatter of furniture and the slink of unsheathed steel and Hawke pushed past the door in a rush to stop her friends from murdering each other.

But Isabela had already assumed control of the situation. She had a dagger under Fenris's chin, who in turn was one sword-thrust short of impaling Anders to the floor where the latter had been knocked prone. Varric stood clutching Bianca to his chest.

"Stop, Fenris!" Hawke pushed away his greatsword and shook his arm. "Stop it!" None of this is his fault! Stop baiting him!" She knelt down beside Anders to help him up as Fenris eased off slightly. "Ella is fine. She wrote to me. She's safe. From everything. Just back off."

Anders sat up, glaring daggers at his nemesis and tugged his arm free of Hawke. His face turned red with indignant rage. "I can't imagine what Hawke sees in you."

"Anders!" Hawke hissed.

"It is done. Leave it be." Fenris's voice was low and his face strained.

"He's less a man than a wild dog!" Anders erupted, throwing his arms up and glaring at her in outrage. Hawke felt a little heat in her face. This was certainly not the way she had hoped things would come to a resolution.

"Hey now, let's not get personal." Varric spoke up finally, edging cautiously between the two.

Isabela had not moved a muscle and stood still with the most impudent grin engulfing her face.

"You," Anders was on a roll now, "-were an idiot to leave Hawke."

Marian felt a surge of blood to her face and glared at the ground, willing it to part and swallow her whole. How did everyone know?

Varric looked particularly interested in this bit of gossip.

"And _you_ were fast enough to replace me."

It was Anders' turn to look horrified. He gaped for a fraction and then, because it was turning out to be a night of awkward admissions, he scrambled to his feet and threw himself forward, "I love her! You have no idea what that means."

Varric stared from one man to the other in utter fascination and then grinned at Marian, who couldn't trust herself to speak a word or meet anyone's gaze, before looking finally at Isabela for his end of the currently unravelling yarn.

"Do not bare your heart to me, mage, unless you would have me rip it out." Fenris snarled, hefting his sword again and Marian feared for a moment he was going to hew her down to reach Anders, right there in Varric's living room. She opened her mouth to scream but Isabela cut her off, breaking into a throaty chuckle that stopped them both in their tracks.

"Oh, will you two get over yourselves?" She lowered her blade and swaggered back to her seat. "You're like two dogs around a bitch in heat."

There was a woof from beside the fireplace, where the truant Mabari sat on his haunches, wagging his tail as if thoroughly in agreement with Isabela's assessment.

That seemed to sap the tension. Fenris backed off first, throwing one last look of utter contempt at Anders that managed to encompass her in it, and took the chair next to Isabela. He took his cards and put up his legs, giving Isabela a long look before replying. "We were talking about Hawke. Not you."

Isabela glared and then flicked a peanut into his face. "Put your money where your clever little mouth is. I raise you." She grinned.

Hawke turned to Anders, who looked absolutely wretched. Emotions raced across his face and she could scarcely keep track. "I'm going home." He announced.

"Wait. I'll come with you. I want to talk," she spoke up quickly. Fenris scowled at her and returned to his cards. Isabela twisted around in her chair to stare, her interest piqued. "But I have something to discuss with Varric-" she wavered, torn between the two agendas.

"I'm going home." Anders repeated and stomped to the end of the room, "You know where to find me." He closed the door behind him and was gone.

"Never a dull moment around you, Hawke." Varric chuckled, gently putting away his crossbow and rejoining the others at the card table. "This is going to cost you, Broody. I'd been workin' on him all evening – how do you expect me to pay off your tab?"

"You have me drinking on his coin?" He looked vaguely disgusted.

"Poetic ain't it? You're spoilt and have expensive tastes. He's the only one who loses fast enough for me to keep up."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow, shrugged and quaffed his wine.

"So which one of you is givin' me the lowdown here?"

Hawke drew a deep breath, hoping her skin tone had evened out and took the chair just vacated. "There's nothing left for me to add!"

"...Hawke lied insolently to the handsome, manly dwarf."

"Maybe I should switch to Hawke friend fiction – Aveline is a one trick pony and I'm getting bored. There're only so many ways to describe Donnic's _throbbing manhood_ when I haven't seen it."

"Isabela!" Hawke groaned as she and Varric cackled like a pair of hyenas.

"So _Hard in Hightown_ needs a sequel eh, how about - _Debauched in Darktown?_" Varric's blue eyes twinkled in delight.

"Oooh! I like that! I'll do the cover art with bolts of lightning shooting out from his... staff!"

"Maker's breath, Isabela! I can't un-see that!" Hawke shook her head, conceding a reluctant chuckle and beginning to enjoy the attention. "You're incorrigible, both of you."

Fenris said nothing and she avoided his eyes, aware that he was watching her with that narrowed gaze. Finally, he tossed a sovereign on to the table so that it was Varric's turn.

"I came to see you about Hubert. I noticed something odd about the balance sheet this week. Could you take a look?"

Hawke pulled out the document and laid the sheaves flat on the table while Varric considered his cards. "He's a weasel, that one." He groaned and grumbled and spewed a series of colourful expletives, before finally surrendering a coin of his own and turning to Hawke's papers. "I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

For a time he studied the records closely and then leaned back, scratching his chin in deep thought. "There's something fishy about the numbers all right. Get him to turn over the bills of lading and escrow details. I don't think all your shipments are making it through and he's hiding the losses so he doesn't have to share them."

"That little frog-eating rat!" Hawke quickly gathered up the accounts. "What a clever trick. I'll skewer him with a hot poker and eat his liver. Thank you, Varric, I'd better hurry if I'm going to catch up with Anders, see you all later."

"There's another thing," said Varric as she rose to leave. "It's about Merrill. She hasn't left that hole in a week. Daisy looks up to you Hawke, talk to her."

"She's probably just carried away playing with her mirror, that's all." Hawke waved it off. Merrill had been delighted to find her grease and had returned to the Alienage immediately afterwards but between Anders, her mother's frantic anticipation of the Pageant and all the other demands on her time, she hadn't had any to follow up with her. "I'll visit her as soon as I can," she promised, self-reproach catching up with her as she left to find Anders.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

** Click the yellow bubble and drop a line, reviews motivate!**


	10. 08 Restitution

**Author's Note**

As always, a shout out to my beta **strangegibbon**, a hopeless romantic who falls apart on the words 'sugar' and 'crumpet' when used with reference to a certain genius detective with biting wit and cheekbones that are probably not allowed in-flight any , many thanks to everyone who read, added this story to their alerts & favourites and especially those who reviewed! You guys are the best_est!_

The Dragon Age universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware**.

This story is rated T, but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>8. Restitution<strong>_

Hawke stepped out of the Hanged Man and into the dark. Even though the sliver of sky visible above was yet a cool twilight blue, night fell early in this part of town. The sun had dipped behind the cliffs of Hightown leaving behind shadows that were long and deep. Here and there lamps sputtered to life on cheap oil, coughing up smoke and throwing splashes of gold on stucco walls and across the narrow alleys that threaded through the maze of storeyed shanties. In the somewhat wider square where the Bazaar was held, there was a breath of air rustling among the line of awnings, that still bore a touch of chill reminiscent of winter and Marian shivered, pulling the woolly wrap tighter about herself.

It was not so late yet that the streets were dangerous and she weaved through the crowds returning home after the day until she spotted Anders striding down the steep stairwell that fed into the undercity.

"Anders!" she called out and hurried down the narrow steps to catch up with him. "Anders, wait."

He turned around and glared at her sullenly.

"Anders." Hawke sighed, gathering her thoughts and picking her words carefully. "I'm sorry you were hurt. Fenris had no right."

"He's no more responsible for his actions than a pit fighting bereskarn tied up and left to starve."

There were only so many snide jabs she could overlook. She shook her head. "He's not like that. You just don't know him."

"Yet he didn't hurt me. You did."

She winced, feeling a stirring of remorse but drowned it out, remembering her purpose. "Why do you think there is something more between us?"

"It's no secret you carry a torch for him," he said in disgust. "Isabela as well but that doesn't count. She is what she is." There was a softening of expression as he looked at her and gave in to lamentation "But you, you're so much better than that. A candle in a coal mine and you deserve a man, a real man, who can love you for it."

"Oh, Anders." She exhaled, utterly touched and wanting to reciprocate in some fashion. She took his hands in hers. "Fenris resents you because he's jealous of you. There is nothing between us." She urged with wide, earnest eyes. It was technically true.

A part of her protested and there was a little voice that screamed the whole time but looking into his honey coloured eyes, she knew the exact instant her words broke through to him. A faint flicker of hope evanesced and she snatched at the brief window. Their association would survive neither a blaze of unrequited longing nor the complete extinguishment of heartbreak, but perhaps, in the delicate glow of a _maybe_, they could find equilibrium.

"I really like you, Anders and I wish I could say yes, but I don't know my own heart _yet_." It was always best to wander not far from the truth. "I won't lose you over this. I _care_ about you. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

"You don't need my forgiveness," he said.

"But I do!" She insisted. "I'll have your manifesto printed. Would that make you happy?"

He rewarded her with a small smile that encouraged her to continue.

"And I'll help you – your mage underground. I'll go down to the docks tomorrow – to that boarding house and speak to what's-her-name."

"Mistress Selby." Anders smiled wider. It was exactly what he'd have wanted.

"Yes. Liberty for all – Justice, Freedom and all that."

His face lit up, and overcome he clasped her tightly to his chest, laying a chaste kiss on her mouth. Hawke wondered briefly if she could ever convince him of the value-added benefits of a good friendship but filed that thought for later. At present, she was just glad that order had returned to her life.

"I was going to have dinner," he muttered into her hair, withdrawing a little and tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "-and your company would make it more palatable. What do you say?"

"Of course, I can stay-" Hawke agreed readily then it occurred to her, "-what are you having?"

"Oh, I don't know - rats? Though I think it's worm and lichen salad day at the Free Kitchen." He smiled at her horror-struck expression and the appearance of the little crinkles at the corners of his mouth made her melt into a smile. With a tinkle of laughter, she slipped her hand in his.

"Come with me," she dragged him behind her, "I saw this little corner stall by Lirene's with the most delicious smelling sausages-"

Later that night, Hawke left Anders' clinic satisfied with her handling of the crisis. Quite apart from the fact that she was fond of him despite the histrionics to which he was prone, she needed him more than she would ever admit aloud. He was a healer of exceptional skill and she owed him for saving her life.

Amongst all the dangers that went hand in hand with scurrying under the radar of the Circle and its templars, being forever denied access to healers was a little-sung misery that she knew very well. She had watched her father wither year after year as the cancer gnawed him from within, just outside the penumbra of the Circle. She remembered holding her mother and silently offering a much too young shoulder while she broke down and cried in a way she never would before the children, admitting the temptation to turn him in just to end his suffering.

She remembered how jealously Leandra had guarded their health growing up, her fingers still bearing the calluses acquired from obsessively scrubbing their clothes in the coldest of weather. Every childhood infection was a crisis, every sore throat a calamity and Bethany's childhood asthma a dread spectre of disaster. If Justice was Anders' demon it was Hypochondria who had haunted her childhood.

Stepping outside into Darktown, she skipped down the first flight of stairs in high spirits and passed under the vaulted base of the stairs that arched overhead. The diffuse moonlight that trickled through was insufficient to offer illumination and everything was shrouded in darkness. An involuntary tendril of fear curled in the pit of her stomach and as she made the effort to suppress it, realised that she was all alone.

She ducked under an overhanging and pressed forward in the semi-darkness. The walls closed in the deeper she ventured and it was disturbingly claustrophobic. Amorphous shapes and hungry eyes tracked her path lurking in the shadows, the impoverished squatters settling in for the night. Would it kill them to bring a lantern down here, she thought with nervous irritability, then reflected on the grinding poverty that made such an ordinary necessity, an impossible extravagance.

A misshapen, gnarled root unfolded in front of her, without warning tangling in her robes and startled her out of breath.

"A coin, Messere?" It croaked weakly and Hawke exhaled, feeling idiotic as she clasped a hand to steady her heart. It was only a beggar's arm.

She yanked open her purse and drew out a silver, her eyes straining in the dark to make out the cowering form. As they adjusted, bulbous nodules of leprosy became clear, protruding unnaturally from the man's profile. The shadows made the figure look sinister instead of pitiable. Hawke suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

He took the coin and coarse fingers grazed against hers. She recoiled, only to stumble over something new that had crawled near. "Oh Maker! Will you stop crowding me!" She exclaimed, retreating. The second beggar was a cripple and a dwarf, with strange inking on his swarthy face. He raised a spread hand.

"Coin please?" Was that a hint of impudence in his face?

She fumbled for another coin to hand over, glancing around nervously as the shadows, pregnant with mysterious shapes, surged and trickled into her line of vision. Beggars, cripples, sickly urchins with beady eyes drew around in a matter of moments and instead of instilling pity in her heart, their covetous stares made her nervous. She parted with coin in increasing urgency.

A scrawny child took hold of her sleeve, tugging to get attention and his grimy touch made her skin crawl. "Don't touch me." she warned, flicking her gaze over the rest.

"I haven't had nothin' t' eat." He dropped his hand but didn't move back.

She dug into her purse for more silver, warily noting as they gathered, like vultures picking at her faster than she could draw money. Her purse dwindled as their murmuring grew louder, echoing hauntingly in the narrow alley. She felt more fingers reaching for her and spun around. A beggar dragged himself forward and grasped her forearm and like a struck flint, her anger flamed.

"I said don't touch me, you freak!"

She shoved him back and he clattered to the floor, swallowed up by the gasping, swelling crowd. The precariousness of what she had gotten herself into dawned on her and her mood shifted. The alley was filled with them and she was trapped in the centre of a swarm of desperate vagrants, growing bolder with every passing moment. "Enough! Back away, all of you! I've no more coin. I'm leaving." She declared hurriedly, tossing her purse in the swell and using the distraction to press through them. "Back off!"

Someone gripped the back of her hem and it was the last straw. Magic flared violently, the sharp smell of ozone filled the alley as air sundered under her power and exploded, throwing everyone back against the walls. Hawke turned around and fled in panic as they all scattered, cries and wails echoing behind her.

She raced through the shadows, fleeing down dark corridors, navigating purely from memory. There was a narrow stairwell that lead to the second level somewhere through an alley on her right and searched desperately for it, ducking into dead-end alcoves, backtracking, side-tracking, circling around in the dark labyrinth. Just when she thought she was completely lost, the wall on her left gave out and she veered sharply, leaping for what she hoped were the stairs at last. Instead she ran straight into something hard that closed around her like a vice. She screamed. Her heart stopped. She couldn't breathe. Fear crashed over her with such force that her legs gave out.

"Hawke." The relief she felt when she heard that voice filled her eyes with tears.

"Oh Maker, it's you." She sobbed and kissed his face wherever she could reach. "It's you, thank the Maker." She wrapped her arms around him, clinging tightly.

"That's enough, calm yourself." He pried her off, uncomfortable with all that outpouring of emotion. "What happened?"

"A mob attacked me! I was running for my life!"

"I don't see a mob."

Hawke paused in her sobbing relief and concentrated. "They were in that alley under the southern causeway. I felt bad and gave out some coin but there were scores of them."

"You gave out charity to bandits?" He asked sceptically, and Hawke could imagine his eyebrows climbing in the dark.

"Not bandits! Beggars!"

"Just beggars?"

"And cripples, urchins. Scores of them." Now that her nerves were calmer and she was not harried, she felt less certain about their number but felt no great need to amend her description.

"You ran screaming from children, cripples and beggars?"

"It was dark. They looked dangerous." She glanced over her shoulder but the shadows lay still and silent.

"The cripples." He said in a perfectly level voice but she could still hear his amusement.

Hawke fidgeted under this cross examination. "Why are you here anyway? Did you want to torment Anders? Haven't you tortured him enough for one day?"

"I don't know, you stopped me before I could decide."

Hawke found her lips twitching in amusement and deflected. "Did you follow me here? Why did you do that?"

"I enjoy following you."

Hawke deliberated on that for a moment.

His hands closed around her upper arms and pulled her back, so close she could see his eyes shining in the dark. "So, you are with that _abomination_ now?"

The suddenness caught her off-guard and once again she found herself out of breath, her stomach twisting up in writhing knots, her heart fluttering in her chest like a trapped sparrow and she welcomed it, feeling deliriously happy at his nearness. Her fingers roved up his chest and slid around his neck, feeling the tiny jolt of lyrium. She pressed herself closer and brushed her lips experimentally against his chin, seeking the leaping pulse under his jaw. His grip shifted to her waist and his hands slid indulgently over her rump. He rested his forehead against her hair, and exhaled an indistinct curse under his breath. "...maddening woman," he told her.

"I am only thinking of _you_, right now," she whispered, teasing her tongue along his tapered ear.

He tensed. "And did you assure him of any less?" He drew her hands from around his neck and shoved her off abruptly.

All amorous inclination was exorcised at once and replaced with indignation. "So what if I had?" She said hotly. "It doesn't mean I'm lying now. If I had him in my bed once, it means no more than that. It doesn't bind me. I don't belong to anyone."

He grunted but said nothing in reply.

They were at an impasse and as her anger settled, she realised she didn't want to fight. With an attempt at levity, she reached for him again. "I'm _very much_ the untamed shrew."

"So you are." He caught her hands before they could touch him. The grip made her flinch but she couldn't tell from his tone if he was upset.

"Are you jealous?" She asked outright, a little shocked at her forwardness but she wanted to know, _needed_ to know. She wanted him to say yes. With an epiphany of self-awareness, she realised that this moment was all that Anders had ever been about. He was silent for a long time, his luminescent gaze studying her.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally.

The disappointment was overwhelming, and she closed her eyes so they wouldn't betray her emotions, striving to stuff it all in the neat compartment where everything she found unworthy of herself went to languish. She took her hands back and re-arranged her shawl. "So what are you doing here?"

"I came to take you home."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Whisky and reviews make my day!**


	11. 09 Reflection

**Author's Note**

I'm profusely sorry for taking so long to post this chapter but between being unhappy with the initial draft and completely mired in spelunking wantonly in Skyrim, I needed a heroic rescue, finally delivered by my beta **strangegibbon** in the form of a well placed boot to the rear. Once again, a very special thanks to everybody who added this story to their alerts and favourites and to those who took the time to review - I love you guys!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware**.

This story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>9. Reflection<em>**

Anders arrived early one blustery morning when she was absolutely loathe to emerge from the comforting cocoon of her bed to drag her grumbling drowsily and without breakfast to the Docks. A morning chill hung over the harbour, the water whisked into little peaks by the wind, slate grey against the mist shrouded cliffs while a meek early spring sun glimmered apologetically above.

They made their way through largely empty streets to the Western Warehouse District, where a handful of stevedores hustled crates in the quays below and a beggar or two sat on the steps leading down, picking at scabs and indulging in breakfast. Most businesses were still shuttered and the only thing filling the promenade were stray bits of scrap frolicking in the pungent sea breeze.

Mistress Selby's boarding house was inside a nondescript and derelict building at the very end of the pier, appearing at first glance to be no more than a hostel for out of town visitors that were light in the pocket. The interior was strictly utilitarian and unremarkable, only a few cheap wooden chairs arranged around a plywood table in the lobby. When they arrived, there was no one at the reception and she waited idly while Anders chased down someone to attend them.

Finally, about half an hour later, Hawke was introduced to the woman who had organised Kirkwall's underground apostate rescue railroad. She wasn't a mage herself, but her sister had been made Tranquil under Ser Alrik's diabolical scheme some two years ago and since then she had dedicated herself to the mission of helping inmates flee the Circle.

As Hawke sat there reluctantly at first, and then with increasing guilt, listening to Selby elaborate, she noticed the woman's striking resemblance to her mother and wondered what Leandra would have done if her father had ever been captured.

It was impossible to imagine her mother far beyond her comfort zone and Hawke reflected on the choices she had made to keep it that way. Her mother, like Bethany, was delicate – a nurturer not a protector – and Carver was often trapped by his scruples. Hawke had learnt very early in life that at least one of them could not afford to shy from whatever it took to keep them safe and she had never shrunk from that role.

"Your brother is a templar." Selby glared at her in cold assessment. "I must know whether you can be relied on."

Anders gave the necessary reassurance on her behalf while Hawke, for his sake, arranged her face into a passably trustworthy expression. After a brief moment of indecision Selby nodded in assent and dived straight into business, handing her a stack of urgent demands that Anders took great interest in analysing out loud all the way back to Hightown.

When she returned home she found her mother in tears. She had been snubbed by Dulci de Launcet at a tea-party, the milliner had ruined the hat she was to wear to the parade and Gamlen had argued with her over money. There was little she could do about the first and she refused to do any more about the last but it had taken the rest of the day to have the hat sorted out.

The next few days were no better with one minor crisis on the heels of another. At the end of the week Hubert finally capitulated and admitted to the lost shipments. The Coterie ferreted out a witness and it fell to Hawke to extract a confession. Their contact Lilley, led them to the exclusively Fereldan slums where she had lived for over a year, and stopped before a shabby little shack she recognised at once as belonging to Sabin – a man who had watched her grow up in Lothering and been a friend to her father.

Hubert foisted the task to make him talk upon her, eyes gleaming in triumph at her shock – he was Fereldan and therefore hers to deal with, he explained in his oily Orlesian way, neither he nor Lilley believing she had the wherewithal to do it. It was a test of whether she had the mettle to back her temerity. They expected her to flinch and back down. He could make her withdraw her demands and swindle more money from the accounts.

The slightest chink in her armour and they would pick at her flesh like vultures.

She glanced at Fenris, pursing her lips before the keen gaze studying her coolly, arms crossed. There was no encouragement there, no expression of support and she was entangled in doubt. Would he understand that it was not material comfort that she strived for when he had only himself to look after? Principles were easy to cling to when the stakes were simple, but where would it leave her mother if she showed weakness or Orana or dear, simple Sandal?

Poverty was insecurity and vulnerability and the constant, niggling fear of tomorrow. And if the price to keep the Circle from her heels so she could keep a roof over her household's head was a little guilt she had been prepared to pay it a long time ago. He would understand. He _had_ to.

"Help him with his memory, Fenris."

Surprise registered on every face in a different stroke. Hubert sniffed, Lilley crossed her arms and Fenris subtly arched a brow.

For the briefest fraction, she was not sure of his reaction but he uncrossed his arms and wordlessly stirred to comply with her directive. There was anger in every supple movement and she turned away instead cowardly, unwilling to watch yet acutely aware of each blow and sicker in the heart for it. It was a weakness, she warned herself and like so many others, it belonged in that compartment in her heart where she kept all her weaknesses, along with the promise one day to examine them when she could afford the luxury to do so.

Sabin talked in the end but she could not get Fenris to do the same. It was enough to make her long for the biting whip of his tongue but he only levelled stormy eyes at her, full of indignation and reproach.

"Are you ever going to speak to me again?" she declared as they climbed up the steps from the Market. "I did what I had to do."

"Keep your excuses." he snapped viciously. "What will you have me do next – shall I serve wine to intimidate your guests?"

Marian stopped short, stricken with horror and felt it creep red and prickling up her face. "I'm not- it's not the same." It sounded hollow even to herself but made her no less angry. "I don't need this-" she finished hotly, marching toward home not caring if he followed.

Bodahn accosted her on the curb, pink faced and dishevelled as if he had spent the morning canvasing Hightown looking for her. He glanced uncertainly at Fenris a step behind her and then decided that the enormity of the crisis overruled the need for discretion.

"Messere! Please, Lady Amell is- your presence is required at the Estate at once, Madam. I am truly, sorry." He dipped low, hat in hand and his normally pretentious tone was inflected with grief.

It stopped her blood cold, anger giving way to worry. "What are you talking about? Has something happened to Mother?" She glanced at the house and broke into a frantic dash toward the front door.

"Mother!" She crossed the empty foyer, taking in the sheaf of discarded mail on the floor, her heart hammering in her ears. There was no answer as she ran through the quiet in the main hall and vaulted up the stairs several at a time. The the soft sound of weeping came drifting from her mother's quarters as she neared the top. "Mother?"

Orana was on the floor outside the door, her normally composed expression miserable, and dread slithered into the pit of her stomach. "Orana, where's my mother? What's happened?"

Without waiting for a reply, Hawke pushed open the bedroom door and entered.

Leandra was hunched over by the bay window, violent sobs wracking her body. The room was in complete disarray. Curtains taken down, the bed linen pulled off and all her formal outfits scattered around, the edges and trimmings in various states of unravelling. "For the Love of Andraste, what happened here?" She strode across the room and placed a hand over her trembling form.

"Oh Marian, everything is ruined," she sobbed brokenly, seam ripper hard at work in trembling fingers, undoing the applique on the lavender frock she was to wear to the Ball. Hawke could barely make out the words.

"What happened to your dress? There's no need to cry about it - or tear down the house."

Leandra only cried harder. "I'm redoing it, it's all wrong."

"Did Jean Luc not deliver your hat? I'll go fix him up right now," she offered but it seemed to make no discernible difference. With a sigh, she settled down in the window seat beside her, petting her on the back while she convulsed pitifully.

"Did Dulci say something again? That sanctimonious witch. Don't mind her, she's only jealous of you."

"Jealous!" Leandra exclaimed in a fleeting moment of composure before dissolving into fresh tears. "They are laughing at us right now! They dare insult me! If your grandfather were alive- Oh Marian! How will you ever debut now - and already 25!"

"Dear Maker, Mother. I can't fix it if I don't what it is. Calm down a moment and tell me what happened."

Leandra drew in a shuddering breath and clutched Marian's hands, tightly wringing them in her own. "We can't go! We aren't invited!"

"Is this about that blighted invitation again?" She shook her head. "It was probably just lost in the mail. I'll go to the Keep tomorrow first thing in the morning and ask for a duplicate in person. Seriously, Mother - you go looking for things to worry about. The noble families are always invited."

Leandra burst into another spasm of tears. "Yes! Everyone! Except us!"

"Stop crying, Mother. Fenris is right outside, he can hear you, you know." She hoped that would force some composure. Instead, it had the opposite effect. She flung away Marian's hands and shrank away from her. "I sent Bodahn to enquire of the Master of Ceremonies. There's been no mistake. We were never invited!"

Hawke frowned, "That can't be right." She slumped back as her mind dived into analysis. "There must be some mistake."

"No! There's no mistake! There were objections raised at the Planning Committee. They voted to exclude us!"

"What? Why would they do that? You're an Amell. We live in Hightown. I subscribe to all their bloody charities."

"Oh Marian, you foolish girl. I keep telling you! It's the company you keep! So unbecoming for a lady! Those nasty merchants and mercenaries and pirates," and she sobbed so loudly her next words were nearly unintelligible, "and _elves!"_

Marian felt a flood of emotion. "Mother! Mind yourself-" She sputtered, her mouth suddenly too dry, her skin crawling with guilt. "This house doesn't pay for itself. All these nice things you love cost coin. What would you have me do? I can't sustain us sitting at home embroidering heraldry! You think Carver can afford this on his little templar stipend? Do you have an inheritance squirreled away you forgot to mention?"

A potent mix of anger and shame surged through her veins heating up her face and the back of her neck, even her ears where it turned into a constant ringing. She stood up, unable to look at Leandra until she had ambulated it off.

"I have to work. I have to find coin and I have to move among people who know where to look."

"Lord Friedrich-" Leandra continued brokenly, "he called you a bandit. He said three years ago, you held him up at the harbour for coin. My daughter - an Amell - a _thug_!"

Hawke sank into the armchair in the corner of the room, feeling the weight of each one of her twenty five years. She felt chided - small and unworthy before her mother's disappointment, like the time she had stolen Father's brandy to bribe the boys in Lothering and was caught. While she rummaged about for a way to explain it away, she wondered what her mother would say to the truth, that she had really been hired to kill the man and settled for coin because her feet were struck cold at the last minute. That it was Gamlen who had placed her in that position in the first place and she was desperate because her family had been sitting outside the city without provision for three days.

"It was a misunderstanding, Aveline cleared it up years ago." She said at last. Aveline's name would give this vague eye-wash the credibility her mother needed to turn away from having to face it. She had never been able to level with her, not when she had had to make these choices the first time, and not now more than ten years later.

"I have to go. It's been a long day." She rose and walked towards the door, pausing by Leandra as she continued to weep softly by the window and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sorry, Mother."

Outside the room the expectant faces of Orana and Bodahn were waiting for an explanation, as contrite as if the whole thing was their personal failure. It wasn't. It was hers and she hated them for it. "The room is a mess - why hasn't anyone seen to it?" She snapped. Orana paled and quickly wiped away her teary eyes.

"Lady Amell wouldn't let me in, Mistress." She scampered towards the bedroom.

"She'll let you in now. Get to it."

Her gaze swept upon Bodahn and the dwarf braced himself, "Sandal is cleaning up the foyer as we speak, Messere."

The sting she had readied died on her lips and she pursed her mouth in a curt nod. She contemplated venturing into her bedroom but there was nothing within to attend. For a long moment she stood in the middle of the landing, too agitated by the inability to direct herself to a task that had not just been rendered moot. The shoes, the clothes, the hats, the gloves, the renting of the carriage, the readiness of the horses - everything on her list of things to do was tied into that damnable pageant, months of planning suddenly and completely redundant and now she simply had nothing to do.

Fenris stood half way up the stairs, concern softening the sharp edges of his frown.

"She's fine." She snapped irritably before he could ask.

"I should leave."

"That would probably be best right now."

He nodded and turned around.

She would read, she decided. It was the only thing that she could pluck from the ceaseless churning of her mind and she grasped it, setting off towards the library. It had been too long since she had settled down by the fire, put up her legs and delved into a ponderous book on something she cared not two figs about. The house loomed, silent and brooding as she walked - the very walls rustling with the lavish drapery she had provided, seeming to whisper in judgement. Everything pressed in upon her and her brain whirled as uselessly as the wheel of an overturned cart.

Hawke entered the library and reached for the first unwieldy tome on the nearest shelf, "let's see then, ah - _The History of the Chantry_, _volume 7_- this should put me to sleep for a month."

She lowered herself into the armchair by the fire with the tome on her knees and ran her fingertips absently over the gilt edges, her thoughts beginning to pull away from her again and it was a while before she realised she had been sitting idly with her mind thrumming away at everything and nothing.

"I need a drink." She set the book aside and strode to the console by the window, reaching for the bottle of wine. Then changed her mind; she wanted something stronger. Kneeling down, she fished out the bottle of Starkhaven whisky Varric had brought over long ago for Carver forgotten at the back of the cabinet and poured herself a shot.

The amber liquid caught the light from the window and she examined it against the waning sun, building up the nerve to take the plunge. Finally, she gulped it down in one go, coughing and sputtering as it burned down her throat. It was disgusting. How anyone could care for it was beyond fathoming but as warm numbness settled over her she acquired a fresh appreciation and carried the bottle back to her position by the fireplace, no longer needing the treatise on religion.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Do Click the little yellow bubble below and let me know your thoughts!**


	12. 10 Resolution

**Author's Note**

Continuing thanks to my beta **strangegibbon** who is as kind, patient, empathic and tolerating an editor as she is sith warrior - the scourge of jedi (and commas) everywhere and an abiding blight upon their generations! A special thanks to each and every one who added this story to their alerts or favourites, and those who reviewed and pm'ed - I love you guys.

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>10. Resolution<em>**

A clatter of something small against the window in the library roused Marian from her listless reverie, along with what might have been the faraway sound of her name. She stirred, heavy in the head and looked around with a yawn, nearly knocking over the glass perched on the armrest. With a deliberate effort, she grasped it firmly in hand to check the contents and frowning, tilted the disappointing remnant down her throat before palpating around the chair for the bottle.

"Hawke!" Something knocked against the window again, distracting her from the search. "The window, you silly thing. Open it," instructed a sharply impatient voice.

With a groan, she raised herself to her feet and stumbled across the room. It took her a little more fumbling around with the latch before the window flung open and she was able to lean out of it.

"Isabela!" Her friend's blue bandana bobbed up from the street below. "You know, there's a front door down the street, just around that corner." Her voice rolled about her mouth clumsily.

"Oh move over." Isabela hoisted herself up over the window sill, folding her long brown legs in after her. "That little rooster of yours at the door tells me the Estate isn't _receiving_ anyone tonight - bollocks, I said."

"What time is it? I must've dozed off."

"Just after eight," Isabela raised an eyebrow, "is that whisky on your breath?" She grabbed Marian's head and kissed her thoroughly. "Hmm, you naughty thing - what would your mother say?"

"It was _her_ tantrum that gave me a headache." Marian leant against the window, folding her arms sullenly.

"Oh, sod that pompous vanity parade! Come on, we're getting out of here." She started climbing out again.

"What? Where?" Hawke looked up, vaguely wondering how Isabela knew about the fiasco.

"We're having a girls' night." Isabela shimmied down like a rather curvaceous and well endowed Par Vollen monkey. "Come on, I'll catch you if you fall."

"Through the window?" Marian tested the sill uncertainly. "Why can't I use the door?"

"Just climb down, you're nimble enough."

Hawke was intoxicated enough to believe that. She slid over the windowsill and clutched the trellis nervously. "I'm going to fall and break something!"

"Hurry up, we haven't all night." The pair of eyes glittering in the street below urged as if it were the most reasonable demand in the world.

"How did I let you talk me into this?"

Hawke slowly clambered about halfway down the pendulous hanging before her hair snagged in the ivy, startling her off balance. With a frantic screech she skittered the rest of the way down into Isabela's waiting grasp.

"Sweet Andraste!" She broke into tittering as she recovered. "What a fool thing to do! I have scratches _everywhere!_"

"I didn't think you were sloshed enough to actually go through with it. I'm impressed."

"Isabela!" Hawke chided groaning, but the sudden rush had cleared some of the fog in her head and already devoid of better judgement, she began grinning in exhilaration.

"Come on then," Isabela grabbed her arm and pulled.

And off they went, ducking through alleys between houses, cutting across neighbouring courtyards, giggling at shocked servants and startled watchmen for no other reason than that it seemed like fun.

"Isn't that the- _Vena-vana_- oh, that big elf tree- why'd you bring me here- is there a party?"

The majestic oak towered in the centre of the squalid courtyard, defiant in its red skirted festoonery and Hawke stopped to admire. She peered at the scrap of dark blue sky above, the gnarled branches seeming like skinny arms raised in supplication.

"I should get one of these for Mother- it'd impress the neighbours, surely - that should make her happy." She settled on the bench that circled the base of the tree. "Why are we here?"

"You're too drunk for a party - I don't want to have to drag you about. We're having a Girls' Night In," said Isabela.

Marian giggled,"Oh! I can do your make-up again!" -and slung her arm around her friend's taut waist, tucking them in together. "I'm sorry you can't be my plus one- that would've been such a hoot," she finished with a despondent sigh, leaning her head against a leather-clad shoulder.

"Never mind that - there's a new ship coming in this weekend and there are going to be more lusty men than you'll know what to do with."

Hawke snickered but a moment later she was sighing again, "Too Fereldan for them, am I?" she started to shake her head but her vision swayed and she stopped.

"Since when do you care what all those stuffy prigs think? I told you, you were better off in Lowtown."

"They shan't ignore me," she said, reviving. "I'll show them."

"That's my girl."

Isabela rapped once on the little wooden door to Merrill's home tucked in one corner of the Alienage and pushed inside.

"Get a lock on this door, kitten-" She called out strutting over to loom in the centre of the room with her hands on her hips, commanding the space as if it were her own personal deck. "This place is open wider than a whore on feast day."

"Aveline!" Hawke teetered in behind her, spotting her friend by the hearth."You look splendid!" She was out of uniform for once.

"Hawke," Aveline looked up and treated her to a slight frown, "and you look drunk and disorderly."

Marian was thoroughly amused.

Then Merrill burst into the room like a beam of sunshine. "Hawke, you're here!" She fluttered excitedly, announcing-"I've got something to show you all!" with barely contained glee, "come and see!" and dashed back into the rear of the house.

"If it's that delicious hunk next door hog-tied up at last - I call first dibs." Isabela sauntered after her to Merrill's shy little yap of denial from within.

Marian followed, dragging a disapproving Aveline behind and they found the elf skipping around her beloved mirror, polished and gleaming in the lamplight.

"Beautiful, isn't it!" Merrill gushed and in truth, it was exquisite.

Finally restored, the frame was smooth with age and curved gracefully around the frosted mirror in the centre which shimmered mysteriously, pregnant with dormant power - ancient secrets shifting beneath a murky patina. The broad fissure across its span added character, like a scar on an unforgettable face - seductive and full of promise. Marian understood why the young girl was obsessed with it but to stand there and watch her beam eagerly at it was more than she could bear.

"Well," she stepped forward, stroking the silky ironbark in assessment. "You're much prettier."

Merrill spun around cheeks scorched red and eyes burning and Marian snared her in a brilliant smile, letting her fumble around awkwardly with the compliment, the mirror momentarily forgotten.

"What's all the fuss about? Frankly, I can't even see myself in it." Isabela interrupted their little moment, encompassing both in a keen glance as she circled around the relic.

Aveline alone hung back, oblivious to these undercurrents and wholly concerned with how much of a threat it posed her jurisdiction, "It's not something I should worry about, right?"

This was all the invitation Merrill required and she dived right into rapid exposition that Hawke was too inebriated to follow. In the end, despite Aveline's misgivings, she found herself making magnanimous promises on every one's behalf she had the vague inkling would be troublesome by the light of day. But Merrill was so beseeching and excited and adorable in her enthusiasm, a trip to Sundermount to persuade the Keeper to part with precious dalish artifacts sounded like a perfectly good expenditure of time.

An hour later they were all nestled upon Merrill's lumpy bed, talking about men and sex. Isabela had procured a bottle of cheap gin that made dutiful rounds between them, briefly visiting Merrill when either woman ventured to tempt her to join in to Aveline's germinating consternation. Marian's carefully coiffed ringlets were woven tightly into half a dozen dalish braids that would have scandalised her mother and every matron in Hightown.

"What is the wildest thing you've ever done?" Merrill wanted to know.

"Oh, I know this one -" volunteered Isabela, taking a swig from the bottle and passing it back to Hawke. "A dwarf in drag!" She belched loudly while Aveline looked on in horror. "I wouldn't recommend it."

"Where did you drag him to?" asked Merrill.

Aveline glared admonishingly at Isabela but Hawke was happy to intervene. "It means he was dressed up like a woman."

"Oh, that's quite strange." Merrill remarked thoughtfully.

"I've never been with a dwarf." Marian confessed, "Or a Qunari- that'd be something. Have you, Isabela?"

The Rivaini shook her head, "Now there's a thought-"

"Is it even physically possible?" Came from an appalled Aveline.

"I've seen plenty down at the docks," Merrill went on, "you could go down there and ask around, I bet any one of them would be willing-"

Hawke burst into laughter, Isabela cackled and even Aveline surrendered a chuckle. "I'd give anything to see the look on the Arishok's face if we went around to his compound asking for a tumble," said she.

"Oh, I wouldn't like to do that. He's so grim. What if he impales you on one of those horns?"

"I like the way you think, sweetling." Isabela observed slyly, exchanging a look with Marian that dissolved them into shrieks of mirth, leaving Merrill as confused as ever and Aveline holding her head.

"You're sick," she said. "The both of you."

"I can't even imagine everything you've done," The elf admitted with some awe. "Who was your first?"

"My husband, Ser Wesley."

"Huh - so was mine- what do you know, we have something in common." Isabela raised the gin bottle at her.

"You made love to Aveline's husband?" asked Merrill.

Hawke laughed until she felt nauseous and Aveline attempted to squeeze the image out of her brain with her fists.

Isabela was completely smug. "No, unfortunately. He happened to be my own - the greasy bastard."

"Oh. Eww - is that why you left him?" Merrill continued.

"I didn't leave him. He took a knife to the throat."

"I'm sorry," Aveline scrounged up some sympathy with visible effort.

Isabela was unaffected. "I'm not. The assassin was delightful - glad I met him." Aveline's mouth settled into a very firm scowl before she caught up- "no, I didn't hire him!_"_ Then because she couldn't be expected to let an opportunity like that slip, added with a slow smile. "But I thanked him_ profusely_."

Hawke in the meantime had appropriated the gin bottle and was alternating between tipping it down her throat and peering into it with one eye when Merrill turned to her. "What about you? When did you do it for the first time?"

Merrill's face was rapt, as was Isabela's, even Aveline looked curious. She lowered the bottle, old memories burgeoning hazily to sour her happy mood and gave a flippant toss of her head. "Far too long ago, it seems. Frankly, right now I couldn't tell you the last time I did it, either."

"Really? How old were you?" Hawke frowned at Aveline's persistence. Sometimes, the woman was a real _cow._

She tugged at a frayed bit of string in the blanket, roiling in sudden disgust at its rattiness and acutely aware of how small and dark the room was. The creaking of the cot under their weight made her skin crawl. Everything was too uncomfortably reminiscent of the shabby storerooms behind the Lothering Chantry. Marian shook herself free and realised the brief hesitation had imparted a heft to her answer a refusal would only compound. For once she was irritated by the spotlight.

"Thirteen." She said with a shrug. Blank faces met her declaration. "Oh don't look at me like that!" She waved her hand, "besides Bethany made up for my shenanigans - she was a virgin till the end, poor thing."

Aveline continued to stare grimly, her eyes hard and troubled. It made Hawke skittish.

"What?" Her patience for lamentations over _lost innocence_ was precisely nil. It was overrated. She thought of Bethany, chastely saving herself for true love and felt vindicated. Her sister had held on to enough idealism for both of them, it was Bethany's domain, not hers - never hers. Trading it in for things that were more important had been a considered choice and there was no room for regret. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

She squared her shoulders. It was all the explanation she would offer Aveline and only because they had survived a blight together. "For your first, Merrill, I'd recommend a woman - much more appropriate for the occasion."

"Really?" Merrill turned into a mass of mottled pink skin, shining, hopeful eyes and wistful sighs. "You would?"

Hawke smiled and patted her cheek before rooting around for the gin bottle and emptying the last of it.

"I really liked Tamlen," Merrill confessed sadly, "but he died." There was an interlude filled with embraces and condolences, after which she continued. "But I'm not sure anymore if it was love, though." She glanced at Hawke.

"You'll find the right one for you," Aveline said sincerely.

"You deserve to, kitten." Isabela agreed.

But Marian was feeling more than a little alcohol sick and bitter. Her mind churned up odd, untimely thoughts of Fenris that she was too ashamed to own. "It's nothing but a lot of trouble," she said, "- like an ulcer really, just won't go away and you can barely enjoy anything anymore."

"That's not true. I loved my husband." Aveline countered, and then observed, "you sound like you speak from a bad experience."

"Not me, thank the Maker, no. I get into enough trouble as it is."

Isabela did not comment, adrift on her own thoughts and that put an end to the subject, the conversation soon flowing to other things as the evening progressed.

It was much later. Aveline and Merrill were fast asleep - the former spread-eagled on her back, limbs flung every which way and the air reverberating noisily each time she exhaled and the latter, curled up on her side, hardly occupying any room at all. On the opposite end, Isabela reclined against the headboard. Hawke lay on top, head nestled in the ample cushion of her chest. They talked softly, unwinding from a bit of muffled exertion stolen while the others slept.

"Poor Donnic, how does he get any sleep at all with this racket?" Isabela whispered, running her fingers absently through Marian's hair. This earned her a sleepy snicker and then they were quiet for a while.

"I'm glad you dragged me here tonight." Hawke shifted her head and looked at her for a moment before resuming her position.

"Kitten over there needed an intervention," but Isabela was not looking at Merrill. She was looking at her and knew exactly what needed to be said and what didn't. As a peaceful contentment spread through her, Marian reached up to kiss her best friend and felt happy. "So," Isabela continued after another long moment, "what's this between you and her?"

Hawke stifled a yawn. "I can't imagine what you mean."

"I get the feeling the girl's messing with something big and dangerous."

Hawke wriggled her head. "I'm sure it's nothing as grave as _that_," she insisted. "Merrill's just being... well, Merrill."

"If you do anything nasty to her, I'll cut off- ...well, you don't have any balls, but I'll do something pirate-y. Now move over, your head weighs a ton!"

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

Feedback is like crack, you develop dependence!


	13. 11 Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note**

Many thanks to **strangegibbon**, not only for her meticulous editing but for her unfailing support through a rather rough start to the year. You're the best_est_ and when I finally run over Irene Adler in a pick up truck, it'll be in your name! Thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites, and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed. It means so much!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to BioWare.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>11. Quid Pro Quo<strong>_

The long aquamarine stem curled gracefully inside the cut crystal vase and caught the wan sunlight filtering through the curtain. It cast a brilliant turquoise reflection on the table top as Hawke slid a sprig or two of baby's breath in beside it. She teased the solitary bloom until the whorl of delicately veined petals hung exactly right over the rim and stepped back to observe the arrangement from different angles, making the odd final adjustment, until at last a smile of satisfaction spread on her face.

She looked over her shoulder at her mother's sleeping form on the bed, wondering when she would wake from her siesta and notice the exotic flower. Marian had not spoken with her since her breakdown the previous afternoon and Orana had expressed concern that she was still despairing, eschewing meals and keeping to her bedroom. It was her hope that the rare and valuable harlot's blush would improve her mood or at least give her something to fuss about.

Leaving her mother to sleep, she eased the door shut and glided through the house, emerging in the courtyard where Sandal and Bodahn were busy with the haul from her latest adventure in the Sundermount.

Sandal rushed forward and held up his hands, delight crinkling up his eyes. They were covered with a fine layer of golden sand that sparkled in the sunlight, "Enchantment!" he cried out excitedly.

"Found the glitterdust, I see." She halted, hoping he wouldn't smear it over her clothes but his exuberance was endearing and Hawke was feeling indulgent. She patted the thick crop of sandy hair on his head a little awkwardly and smiled, stepping around him. "Very nice, you go on and have fun with that."

Nothing could flag her spirits that morning. She was a veritable font of optimism, a side effect of having managed to conceive a new scheme that was currently gestating in her head.

Sandal knelt to trace gibberish runes with glitterdust on the flagstone and she walked over to Bodahn who was feverishly inventorying the contents of the 'loot' wagon backed up into the courtyard.

"Don't lose that Varterral's heart - ugly thing but I know a herbalist who'll pay much coin for it."

"Of course not, Madam. Would you care to inspect?" He set aside his notation and retrieved the black fossil for Hawke who rolled it around in her hands, relishing the uneven, grainy texture and calculating how much it would fetch, before handing it back.

She glanced around at the piles of items the dwarf had painstakingly sorted and approved of the effort. "Excellent work, Bodahn. Send it off to Hubert, he'll take it off our hands." It would haul in a good fat purse of coin, she thought thrilled. "You deserve a reward - get new livery for yourself, Sandal too."

Bodahn bowed gratefully, "Thank you, Madam."

Hawke nodded, feeling almost gleeful at that sudden stroke of genius. The servants would need to be liveried anyway once her plan worked and there was nothing like catching two fish with one spear. Her thoughts, busy calculating profit and turning over the scheme brewing in her head, did not dwell much on the hapless Pol or Keeper Marethari's reiterated caution. Merrill had returned to her industrious seclusion, elated with the Arulin'holm and Hawke, caught up in the spirit of the moment, wondered what else she could do for the girl. Following the impulse she jotted down a list of produce the cook could spare and handed over the parchment to Bodahn.

"Send these things to Merrill at the Alienage. I doubt she'll remember her groceries for a while."

"As you please, Messere." He dipped his head.

She turned around and sauntered back inside the house, yelling for Orana as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

"My lavender robes, Orana - the silk one with the white bow over the shoulder." She settled down on the stool in front of her dressing table mirror and unscrewed various pots of rouge in search of the right shade. "I must look impossible to refuse."

"Of course, Mistress."

"How is the repair coming along?" she enquired as the girl scurried about the room behind her, gathering the outfit. "Make sure Mother's dresses are ready for the Pageant."

"But I thought," Orana stilled, hanger with the required dress in hand, "I thought it was cancelled, I started on mending the curtains first."

"No, no. Leave that for later. Ready the clothes. Mother is quite dramatic," she scrutinised the dark circles under her eyes with a frown - legacy of a hangover with which she had woken early that morning - and dabbed concealer under her eyes. "She will have another tantrum if they are not fixed."

"As you command, Mistress."

"Is that the outfit? Give it here," she shed her house robes and slipped into the fresh ones, pushing up her cleavage while the former slave worked the corseted waist. "When I return, we have to clear out my wardrobe," she held in her breath while the girl laced her up tightly. "As I won't be needing anything off brand, you can take your pick. The apparel shop in Lowtown will make any necessary adjustments if you can't."

"You are most generous, Mistress."

Hawke nodded wordlessly in self-satisfaction. Good ideas, efficient ones like the kind she was churning out that morning were so gloriously rewarding. She applied perfume to her decolletage and final touches to her hair and face, evaluating the result in the mirror. There was a dash of apprehension, which was quickly caught and subdued. Her plan was exquisite in its simplicity, her powers of persuasion formidable, nothing could go wrong. She spruced up the flouncy mass of ribbons cascading down from one shoulder and pushed up her bosom just a little further.

It was a pleasant early evening, with the sun just beginning to descend as she made her way across the square in high spirits. Old Lord Asheril, close friend to Lord Friedrich, was just setting out for his daily walk and she blew him a kiss, catching him by surprise and making him flustered. She marched merrily towards the Chantry Courtyard and the enclave where Fenris stayed holed up in his 'rightfully stolen' mansion.

Before long the familiar stoop was before her. Overgrown vines that having long parted with the masonry trailed along the flowerbed circling the curb, and swirls of what had once been dust then muddy eddies of rain and snow before congealing finally into grimy stains, patterned the stone lining the approach. It looked dreadful and quite beyond unkempt. The gardener would simply have to be urged to do something about it when Fenris was next away. After a moment's hesitation outside the door thinking these thoughts, she entered.

A cold, dark still greeted her in the foyer. Her skin prickled in the chill and her nose clogged as soon as she inhaled. Motes of dust lit up by the single shaft of light from the grimy skylight above the door floated in the musty air. She fought the urge to sneeze, her bare arms itched uncomfortably and she was certain she heard rats squeaking behind the wainscoting.

She gathered up her skirts, the raw silk rustling loudly in the silence and regretted the sandy edging around her pretty white peep-toe sandals that broadened with each step on the thick carpet of dust.

"Fenris!" She called, traversing the long foyer and the large empty main hall, feeling increasingly disconcerted by the grisly mementos of former occupants and the bleached skeletal trophies Fenris liked to leave around to greet would-be trespassers or venturing slavers. It's a damned lair not a home, she thought exasperatedly.

Light flickered above the landing in the room that he had taken over and she picked her way up the stairs, frowning with the effort it took to not get her clothes mired.

The man himself was on the bed in the far corner, leaning against the wall, sword in one hand, whetstone in the other and extended a glance, acknowledging her with a slight nod. "Hawke," he said and carried on attending to his blade.

"There you are, Fenris-" Marian beamed cheerfully at the sight of him, quickly folding away her abhorrence at the state of the house and falling into her role. "I've been looking all over for you."

He gave her a look, "That must have been useless since I am always in here."

She frowned for an instant and then waved it off with her hand. "Well, never mind that." she said. "Tell me, how do I look?"

She propped an up an elbow against the doorjamb and struck a seductively lithe pose that emphasised all her curves.

With a sigh he sheathed his sword and approached, crossing his arms and leaning against the mantelpiece. He regarded her keenly from head to toe, a gaze that lingered over all the right places and made her immensely pleased. She gave her most enticing smile and spun around, holding his eyes until at last he acceded a smirk.

"Like you want something," he declared.

Her eyes flashed, annoyed and thrilled by that bit of sharp insight but she let her face fall and pouted with a certain sense of theatre. "How you break my heart!" She slinked forward and stretched out languorously on the somewhat mouldy chaise lounge. "Why can't you be nice?" she asked, rolling onto her stomach to press all the advantages of her low bustline and tight corset and dangling her legs.

"All right." He tipped his head. "How may I endeavour to serve you?"

She let out an exclamation, "Ha! Why, couldn't I get all dressed up just to please you- I can barely breathe in this you know."

"That is … obvious," he agreed, watching her lungs struggle against the stays. "Yet you do nothing for one reason alone."

"I went after Hadriana with you." She flipped over and leaned on her elbows, eyeing him.

"And you got what you were after." He stared right back, a challenge playing in his intense gaze.

Hawke bristled with indignation but there was more, a longing for something that she could neither recognise nor place and it left her perplexed and irritated. "That is unfair." she retaliated, "You came to me-" then trailed off, realising that an argument would not further her goal, "But never mind this, I don't wish to fight."

"No, you wish to ask something of me - so ask it."

"I need to visit Anders- to find out something," she admitted reluctantly. "It's important."

"So-" He scowled, gesturing at her. "-this is all for him?"

"What?" She choked out and quickly leapt to her feet, covering the distance between them. "No, of course not! What a ludicrous idea-" she shook her head vigorously and reached for his hand to impart just that bit of earnestness but he crossed his arms. "We'll just be dropping by to get a lead and then," she had to settle for stroking his forearm, "we might need to persuade a few people- get our way, you know the drill-"

"You mean you want to torture someone and need me to do your dirty work," he shrugged her off and moved out of her reach. "And against my better judgement most likely, or you would have dressed more comfortably."

"We aren't going to hurt them!" She insisted, following him with a dash of panic. The conversation was hurtling right off course. "You'll just come with me, have my back-" and then added tartly, "and it's not like you've never done this before!"

He spun around, his face twisted, glowing with anger and Hawke realised her mistake as he advanced on her with a strangled curse. She fell back and he controlled himself at the last moment, clenching his fists. "Get out!"

"You can't just throw me out," she said shrinking into the nearest armchair to make it harder to evict her forcibly while he unleashed a stream of foreign invective and wisely kept her silence to let him finish. She tried a fresh tack as soon as he paused. "This is important to me, and Mother- I have to get in - this is the only way."

"This is about that damned party?" he spit out the words in utter disdain, levelling her with a matching glare.

She made to sigh but her bodice was simply too tight. Instead she felt a little faint and winced. "Yes." she conceded simply. "Please, Fenris."

They stared at each other across the impasse and Hawke leaned back into the chair in search of a more breathable angle. It was utterly frustrating to have all her cards laid out. It was just like Wicked Grace, which she'd stopped playing because he always guessed her hand. He wasn't supposed to resist the full compliment of her wiles. When had be become so difficult, so immune to her arsenal? Bedding him was supposed to have made this easier, not leave her with nothing to hold over him.

While waiting for a response, she realised that he could say no.

She bit her lip, the prospect had not crossed her mind and now that it did, it brought a storm of evil thoughts. Her mind wheeled. Could she arrange something with the coterie through Varric - no, there was no time. And of course this was not a request she could ever make of Aveline - it would not do for her to even learn of it. Carver? The futility of that option drew a sigh from her protesting lungs. Isabela was being her elusive self.

This was it, all hopes of inclusion in Hightown's gentry hung upon a single coin and it could fall on either side. If the Harrowing was anything like those few agonising moments, she was tremendously glad she had never undergone the ritual.

One hour later, she was in front of the clinic in Darktown. As usual there was a convergence of the seedy, the poor, the needy and the forgotten milling in and out beneath the arches. All eyes fastened upon her as she approached in her starched, pristine silk and more than one enterprising beggar flung himself in her path, begging for coin but most held back, intimidated by Fenris' inking or more accurately the great sword on his back and the grim expression on his face. He may have acquiesced but he made no effort to hide his displeasure.

"I'll be out here."

She nodded, pushing past the burlap screen that substituted for a door and waded through the crop of desperate patients sitting on the floor in the waiting area for their turn. Picking her way carefully between them, anxious to avoid stains and the random brush of dirty fingers on pale fabric, she could just distinguish Anders' voice over the general din of activity. The nurse who helped him out was busy dressing the festering sores of a leper and Hawke wrinkled her nose as she passed by, finally reaching the make-shift consulting room where Anders conducted his practice.

"Busy evening today," she declared, slipping inside the room. "How are you?"

Anders looked up and smiled, "Hawke! What a pleasant surprise- " his eyes flowed over her ensemble appreciatively and Hawke watched him hesitate complimenting her with one hand on her hip. He finally settled on a friendly, "You're the nicest thing I've seen all week."

Hawke returned his smile. "Oh? And what was the nicest thing you saw last week?"

He finished with his patient, a woman with a baby and led her out before replying. "I have to admit that was you too." He stood apart where as before their falling out he would have taken her hand.

"Anders, you always know just what to say!" Marian said keeping her smile in place and sliding her hands into his.

"Were you going out somewhere?" He gave her fingers a squeeze and smiled but there was a note of wariness in his voice.

"I was- now I've arrived." She flashed him a brilliant smile and glided forward, hoisting herself up on the examination table, which put her chest on level with his eyes.

"I'm flattered." He had trouble removing his gaze from where it had naturally fallen but he managed to lift his face eventually. "I didn't think you would come and see me like this - not after-"

"Oh Anders, I like visiting you- we are friends."

"I had wished we could be more." He said wistfully, and Hawke could not help a sigh, which caused her whole upper body to heave rather uncomfortably. She cupped his cheek with her hand.

"Anders, I'm-" she squirmed, a prickle of guilt worming most uncomfortably through her heart but he covered her hand with his and kissed her fingers briefly.

"No, don't apologise- though it hurts every time to see you and not have you, but I deserve so little and in you, have received so much. You make me happy- that's all I can ask for."

He looked into her eyes, his expression so bereft that Hawke faltered and pressed her lips to his just to avoid that forlorn gaze.

"I know you have your pageant-" he continued, the fingers of his free hand, playing with the bow cascading from her shoulder and it would have been a lie if she said the feathered touch did not excite her in the least, "but later- that templar, if you could do something about him quickly, it would help Mistress Selby a lot."

"Of course, of course, I was thinking on it." Hawke nodded quickly before the raw and tender glow of his beseeching eyes hounded away her sleep for good. "About the Ball-" she said. "Funny thing you should mention it out of nowhere-" she lowered her hand and kept a hold of his, placing both in her lap. "I had a tiny-minuscule, really- favour to ask."

Before he could respond she continued, "last week, just as I was leaving that night, you remember?"

"After that animal turned on me."

"Yes!" She exclaimed, trying not to cringe too much at the descriptor. "I saw Seneschal Bran come in here."

Anders did not say anything but looked just the slightest bit apprehensive.

"I heard it mentioned he'd caught something from some pirate?"

"Hawke-" He started to shake his head.

"It wasn't Isabela. I would know about that." He moved to retreat from her, but Hawke kept a firm grip on his hand. "You know who it was, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, my patients- whatever they tell me, I can't betray confidentiality."

"Anders," Hawke batted her eyelashes, tipped her head and pouted. "we have to stick together! I really must know-"

She could see his resolve flaking as his face crumpled up miserably. "Hawke, I can't- it's the very basic right of anyone who comes here-"

"Please, Anders- for me, just this once." She bent forward and caught his eyes giving him a sultry smile and a meaningful look. "I could even make it worth your while- I'd be very, very grateful-"

He sighed, sliding his hands around her waist and cut a quick glance south of her face in spite of himself. "I just can't deny you anything, can I."

Some minutes later she emerged from the clinic and spotted Fenris in the crowd. He was leaning against the wall and walked over when he saw her. "Did you find what it was you sought?"

She held up a scrap of paper with a name scribbled on it. "I did."

He glanced at it in disgust, "I hope it was worth the price."

"He's my friend, Fenris. He helped me out."

"Selflessly, no doubt."

Hawke dismissed his reservation and stared at Anders' nearly illegible penmanship. "It looks like we need to meet Idunna- you remember her from the Rose, some years ago? She was your very favourite type of apostate."

"The blood mage." He glowered. "The one you should not have spared."

"Turning her in to the Templars was hardly mercy - Anders would call it a fate worse than death. But I think we can convince her she owes us a favour. Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Don't be shy, drop a word or even two!**


	14. 12 Blackmail and Bows

**Author's Note**

Loads of thanks to my beta **strangegibbon** for the wonderful editing and encouragement. Liability for any mistakes is mine, jointly shared by Benedict Cumberbatch for having such distracting cheekbones. Thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites, and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys motivate me!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to BioWare.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>12. Blackmail and Bows<br>**_

Night had fallen by the time Hawke arrived at the docks, and as the land cooled the wind changed course, flowing down the terraced city and towards the open sea. It was a clear night, and a half moon climbed up the horizon, casting silver streaks upon the water in the bay. The pier was filled with dock workers and sailors and as she waded through them, splendid and luscious in silk, ribbons and bows, Fenris was forced to shove off more than one drunken lout, grumbling anxiously about the attention.

"Oh cheer up, it's a just the night for a walk along the waterfront," She said, as he swore one time too many.

"It must be leisurely when there is no liability attached to _your_ hip."

"Don't worry, Fenris, I promise to defend your virtue if they come at you." She threw a smile at him and he scowled back with a shake of his white head.

In one corner, at the very end of the row of the buildings lining the waterfront, was the address that corresponded with Anders' note. Hawke marched up the steps and knocked, primping while they waited to be let inside.

After sometime, the door eased open a crack and half of a woman's face appeared. The cool grey gaze widened in recognition of Hawke and then narrowed, shifting nervously from her to Fenris and back again.

"What do you want?" she demanded in a strangled voice. "We're not open today."

"Idunna! How do you do, my old friend!" Hawke exclaimed, grinning widely. "Won't you invite us in?"

"No! Go away- I won't go back, I swear it!" She made to shut the door but Hawke inserted her foot at the last minute.

"Now, now- we're here to talk."

Idunna hesitated, calculating her chances while Marian tapped her foot, finally venturing, "What do you want?"

"A cup of tea- a glass of wine- is this anyway to treat your old friends?"

"I won't go back!" she reiterated a dash of hysteria colouring her voice.

"Neither will I. So might as well let me in- or should I return with Carver- he'd love to catch up with you- he's a templar now, did you hear?"

"No, please! I'll let you in." She withdrew from a door for a moment, unchained it and flung it open wider. "I'm not doing anything wrong here, we're just getting by. Don't send me back there again please! They turn people Tranquil."

Hawke strutted inside the foyer of the house and looked around, taking in the gaudy decor and tasteless furnishings trying hard to emulate the extravagant flamboyance of the _Rose_ without Madam Lusine's budget.

"Your new digs? I can't say I like it better than the old place."

Idunna scurried around, very much resembling a cornered rat with her eyes flashing nervously. "I don't want any trouble."

"Good, then I'll get to the point." Hawke fixed her with a glare, dropping the convivial manner as promptly as yesterday's trash. "Tell me everything you know about Seneschal Bran."

Her eyes widened and she shook her head, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"One of your girls gave him the pox."

"It wasn't my girls!" she protested, shaking her head violently. "I swear it wasn't. My girls are all clean!"

"I find that hard to believe." Fenris interjected with a sniff.

"Idunna, I came all the way out here - don't make my effort a waste. You won't like my friend when I'm angry."

His glower at Hawke conveyed just what he thought of that.

Idunna hesitated for a few moments, then conceded an inch. "He comes in once a week, for the drinks- that's all."

"Did I introduce Fenris? He has this charming parlour trick where he sticks his hand in your gut and then pulls out something squelchy- it's quite fantastic."

The other woman clasped her hands over her mouth in a bit of a whimper and backed away further.

"I confess it makes me a little hot, which I suppose says something about the kind of girl I am."

"Please, I can't tell you. It would destroy my livelihood. Discretion is everything to my clients." She implored trembling, eyes darting from Hawke to Fenris in a panic.

Hawke remained silent for a moment, a tremor slithering through her resolve. A glance at Fenris, found his face impassively observant as usual. She wasn't completely sure why she hesitated. If Anders were there, she could picture him, fawning over the plight of the reformed apostate with a bleeding heart and she would have done exactly what she pleased anyway. Yet, even certain in the knowledge, that if it were up to him, Idunna would be getting tossed on the nearest boat bound back to the Gallows, she hesitated, wanting to know his mind and what he thought of her - and it wasn't that she longed to align with his wishes; it was more complex. She wanted his admiration, respect- however grudgingly given and it was confusing because she believed herself immune to what anyone thought of her.

"You've given pox to the Seneschal, Idunna-your business is good as dead anyway. Do me a good turn, and I might remember to mention where Bran really got his rash."

Idunna mulled over her options for a fraction, "He likes to pretend."

Hawke raised her eyebrows.

"He pretends to be a lady-"

"Seneschal Bran?" Hawke looked at her incredulous, "but what of the pirates?"

"He meets with them in a disused passage behind the alley. He likes being with them, dressed like that."

Hawke started to laugh and Idunna looked distraught. "They're none of mine. You make sure they all know that."

"Behold, our lords and betters." She flicked her gaze to Fenris and found his lips curled up in a sneer. "This is the company you aspire to."

Hawke finished laughing quickly and turned back to the subject. "Well, this is certainly very entertaining, but not enough."

Idunna gasped, "I told you everything I know!"

"Perhaps, but I need proof."

"It's Serendipity's operation, not mine!"

"Dear Maker!" Hawke barked out a laugh in disbelief, "He- _she- _is in on this too? Does Lusine know you're all stealing clientele from right under her nose?"

"You won't tell her!" Idunna cried.

Hawke was nothing if not an opportunist. "Certainly not, if you help me."

"Serendipity's man - he's called Fat Lou. He's the one you want. I can arrange a meeting."

Fat Lou as it turned out, used to be a real pirate but he'd quickly discovered smuggling to be more dangerous and less lucrative than he'd like and had retreated beneath the Docks to operate a special prostitution ring for a very exclusive clientele - not all of it as legal as the Aveline would like. As she descended into the recesses below the docks, for the first time all evening, Marian felt a little inappropriately clad. It was one thing to strut like a peacock into Anders' clinic where only the sickly stared longing at her finery, or saunter along the docks which, though unsavoury was still subject to the writ of the city but venturing deep into the underworld was quite another matter.

"So where do you suppose the transvestite pirate orgy is?" she stated as they walked through a narrow, seemingly empty alley with that faint prickle of sensation at her nape that suggested they were being watched closely. She drifted closer to Fenris and her hand hovered over his arm a little nervously as she remembered her last brush with bandits.

"Stay alert." It was all he said and Hawke could see the tension in his body; limbs coiled and ready like a cat on a prowl, gliding on featherlight steps, eyes and ears flicking at any sign of movement.

She nodded and glanced around - once, twice, and down at the uneven dirt floor, spotting a square tile that seemed marginally less dusty than the rest. Deciding to set her foot down on it and save some additional wear on her pretty sandals, she didn't expect it in the least when he closed his gauntleted hand around her bare arm and yanked her away savagely. "Trap-"

"Maker's breath," She rubbed her arm, scowling at the light red welt that had begun to form. "How do you know anyway-it looks clean."

"Yes, too clean." He pressed the point of his blade into the centre of the plate, applying a cautious, even pressure. Hawke watched fascinated, hanging over his shoulder as the tile lowered and with a soft click, a long spike thrust out of its centre.

She yelped in surprise. "Who put that horrid thing there! It's a wonder I didn't step on it."

"It's a wonder."

There may have been flicker of amusement lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes, and Hawke searched his expression for evidence of it in vain. She released a little 'hmph' and received the barest twitch of a smirk in response. But before she could open her mouth to call him out on it, he shoved her behind his back and raised his sword.

"Show yourself." he said to the emptiness and there was a tiny clatter in response.

Hawke strained to sense whatever danger it was that had suddenly become apparent to him. She inhaled a breath as best she could to centre herself and tapped into magic, willing the wild energy into an invisible vortex that encircled each of them. Fenris noted the shield and bristled at the perceived slight but restrained himself. They waited in silence as it stretched for a long moment, until finally, a figure stepped out from behind the far corner.

"Let me guess, Fat Lou?" Hawke blurted.

He was a squat dwarf, perfectly bald and shiny; wrapped in several layers of bulbous fat that swelled out from beneath his clothing, padding around his shoulders so that his arms stuck out at the sides and formed a soft and pudgy neck-obscuring cushion from which his chin protruded at an odd angle. There was a crossbow held delicately in sausage fingers.

"You from Hightown?" He grunted.

"Yes." Hawke stepped out from behind Fenris, "And we have a business proposition for you."

Fat Lou did not reply immediately, instead he ran an unabashedly lecherous gaze over her that was insolent enough that Fenris pushed in front. Hawke frowned and opened her mouth to object but the dwarf cut her short.

"This the whore I was told you was bringing?" He didn't move his eyes from Hawke.

"What? Of course not- much to Isabela's woe." She retorted with a half laugh. Fenris's face was not visible, but she was certain it would be the very picture of displeasure. Idunna's ploy to draw out the man left much to be desired.

"I'll get you 50, no more," he shoved out his chin at Fenris.

"Keep your _fifty_, dwarf before I shove it down your throat."

"Now, now, Fenris-remember why we're here." She attempted to mollify him before an altercation ruined her plans.

Fat Lou spit out a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground with all the grace of a dwarven pimp living beneath the docks and narrowed his eyes at Fenris. "You threatening me, knife-ear punk?"

Hawke placed a hand on Fenris' shoulder, he was taut as a wire. "We came to talk coin, not trade insults here."

"Then show the merchandise." his grinned widely and Hawke fought the temptation to smack it off his face.

"Now hold just a minute- I won't have you speak like that to him."

One eye lingering on Fenris' great blade, she slid her hand around his upper arm preemptively but Fat Lou remained on track. "Maybe even 70- plucky thing, you got there."

Fenris shrugged off her grip, the lyrium under his skin tingled to life and Hawke scrambled in a panic to hold him off. "Fenris! Stop, stop. We need him." She bore her gaze into his stormy eyes, pleading.

Fat Lou began to chuckle. "You got a fine one there, I'll get you a clean 100 in gold if you can bring her to heel-"

Hawke gasped in realisation and wheeled around, face flushed and eyes flashing with anger. "-and I get to ride free right now."

"I beg your pardon!" She stuttered a red fog of anger clouding up her judgement. "I am no whore."

The dwarf shrugged and his much layered avoirdupois wriggled with the motion, "if it walks like a whore and looks like a whore, I'm callin' it a whore."

"Why, you little nug-dung-eating tub of lard-" The air around the dwarf crackled to life and all of sudden he convulsed, doubling over in pain, gasping and choking as the spell crushed his lungs.

"Ah and here it comes," she heard Fenris say as a bolt whizzed past her head and ricocheted off the wall behind.

Fat Lou had brought friends and they poured into the narrow alley, unleashing a hail of crossbow bolts before them. Hawke ducked, reinforcing the deflective arcane shield and Fenris hefted his sword to meet them, a blur of silvery blue streaking into their midst.

Cries rose and echoed down the passage, blood splattered on the walls and seeped into the ground. For a precious fraction Hawke was unable to act, paralysed by the sudden eruption of violence. Fat Lou writhed on the ground in front of her, frothing at the mouth as the spell continued to grind his lungs and she tore her attention away from him to focus on the skirmish.

The thugs had forgotten about her - the woman in ribbons and silk was never a threat relative to a man in armour waving a big sword, and Hawke counted on this oversight every time. A few paces behind, on the other side of the corridor was a wooden scaffolding holding up a crumbling portion of the tunnel and she made a run for it, ducking behind for cover.

Once safely out of line of sight, she fought for breath against the confines of her corset and finding it a futile task, reached behind to unhook some of her stays. Air rushed into her lungs the moment the garment came loose and she gulped in great lungfuls of breath. When her nerves allowed, she peeked out from her hiding position to take stock of the situation.

Six assailants, who had traded their crossbows for blades, surrounded Fenris and there were at least another two crossbowmen firing at them from somewhere out of sight. Every few moments, a bolt whizzed too close and was sent veering off target by her shield and the ground around Fenris was peppered with the short black shafts stuck into the dirt, but it was not an infallible barrier and any one of them could have struck home. It was imperative to find the snipers and take them out. She searched the length of the passageway for them and all the dark nooks where such rogues liked to hide, then Fenris cried out.

Somebody had broken through his defence and red blood trickled down his forearm. It was a flesh wound, but it still made her heart stop. She closed her eyes and pulled at the strings of magic, imagining concentric circles taking shape in the dirt under their feet as she had practiced with chalk in her courtyard. In her mind's eye, the runes took shape on the ground and she felt magic flow through the visualised pathway, channeled like water into a canal and as the circles filled out, so did the magic. Suddenly the gravitational pull in the area of effect magnified sharply and hobbled the attackers with a near paralysis.

Hawke released the breath she had drawn, panting with exhaustion and damp with cold sweat. Her hands trembled with effort but she had bought him a reprieve. With another breath, she turned her attention to the bolts that continued to land. She had to disable them on her own. Since there was nothing along the length of the alley and their angles were high, there was only one other possibility. She glanced up towards the ceiling and the shadows that yawned in the vaulting arches above, scrutinising the darkness for any sign of the snipers.

She spotted them on a high beam, solid black shapes that shifted in shadow. They were too far for any of the new discovered force magic and she didn't know anything as spectacular like Merrill. She wracked her brain for a solution, reflecting on the good fortune of having avoided a direct shot and then it suddenly came to her. A simple, almost juvenile hex - one of the very first she had ever figured out.

As soon as it was cast, the sniper's luck nosedived. She heard him swear as his crossbow malfunctioned and then, while struggling with the cocking ring, he tripped, lost his balance and with a terrible scream, plunged down to hit the ground with a crunch.

Hawke turned to the final sniper. He stared over his shoulder, at his companion's still body in disbelief for a few shocked moments and then recovered. He primed his crossbow and took aim with renewed determination. The hail of bolts, though halved, had resumed. Further down in the alley, Fenris engaged with the remaining bandits oblivious to her little victory.

Some lay dead, others had run off and still more continued to present a challenge. His armor gleamed with dark, wet streaks of blood and she had no way to tell how much of it was his own. But she could tell he was tiring, his movements were no longer as graceful and his speed had slackened. Her spells too were beginning to wear off. Fat Lou was passed out on the ground, and lay still, his great barrel chest labouring for air and the gravity bending trick she had pulled was fading away too.

Another bolt narrowly missed her foot and spurred her to action. She knew she had to neutralise the last sniper before attempting anything else to help him. Her magic was nearly exhausted, it took every ounce of willpower to keep the shields up. Hawke studied the sniper, perhaps if she dropped them for an instant, it would free up enough will to attack his thoughts. She knew how to dull a mind with sleep and perhaps touch his thoughts with a little horror but she didn't want to make herself vulnerable.

She considered the continuing scrape, steel clanged against steel. There were two against Fenris and he had turned defensive- retreating and fending off attacks instead of hewing down foes with uncanny speed and preternatural grace. It forced her decision.

With a deep fortifying breath, she abandoned the shields. The steady spin dissolved into a chaotic flux before dissipating completely. Nearly at once, a hail of bolts descended much too accurately upon her and she cowered behind the scaffolding, clutching her head, heart exploding in her chest. As soon as there was a pause in the assault she scrambled out from behind the cover, bounding across the alley in a mad dash as more bolts perforated the ground in her wake.

Skidding to a stop directly under the sniper's perch, she shaped the magic into and thrust it inside marksman's head. He teetered, then a howl pierced the cavern and the crossbow came clattering down. He followed a few seconds later.

Hawke snatched up the weapon and turned back to the main kerfuffle. There was only one thug remaining and his back was toward her. She'd seen Varric do it and managed to cock the drawstring without much trouble, raised it, pointed the bolt in the general direction and released the trigger, yelping in surprise at the unexpected recoil.

As quickly as it had started, the battle was over.

"Are you all right?" She tossed away the crossbow and glanced at Fenris. Her hands shook. She'd just killed three men. _Don't think about it._

"I'll live." He was out of breath and leaned against the alley wall, chest labouring, blood trickling down his blade.

Hawke nodded and turned to Fat Lou, rolling him over with her pretty peep-toe sandal and placing her foot over his chest. _Don__'t think about it. _She leaned forward and scowled at him as he came to, "Your friends are dead."

He whimpered.

"Should have thought of that before. Now then," she transferred more of her weight to his ribcage. "You know Seneschal Bran, you set him up for his weekly pirate romp- I need something incriminating and don't say you have nothing to give me. I will leave you dead in this alley, don't think I won't."

He rattled out something and Hawke had to strain to catch it.

"How utterly convenient," she stated as she rifled quickly through his pockets and withdrew a folded parchment. A pair of stringy lady's underwear fell out that she pinched between her forefinger and thumb in triumph.

"There's a family crest on this and his initials- _Sweetest Serendipity-_" she let out a half-hearted tinkle of mirth, "did you hear that Fenris- that pompous fool - wait till Lady Bran sees this - he's signed this with his first name." Her eyes travelled quickly over the writing and she giggled again, "this letter is so ridiculous - here, read this part-"

Fenris did not respond.

"I wager he wouldn't want Hightown to learn about this, don't you think so?"

When there was still no response from him, Hawke turned around and let out a gasp. "Fenris!"

He had slid down against the mortared wall, eyes closed and head rolled back. His chest rose and fell with visible strain but he made no sound to betray his pain. Hawke knelt beside him, wincing at the all the dark splotches of blood and looked for injuries. "Maker's breath, there's a bolt in your shoulder! What do I do?"

Fenris opened an eye and gave her a look, "healing would be welcome."

"I don't know how-" Blood bubbled up around the thick shaft embedded at the juncture of his shoulder, where there was a gap between chest plate and pauldron. Hawke began to panic, her thoughts scattering away from her as she made an effort to focus, trying to rationalise what to do next. "Let's get rid of this first," she gripped the shaft firmly and released it just as quickly when he hissed in pain, "or maybe I should get you out of this-" she fumbled with the straps of the pauldron and slipped it off his shoulder.

"The one redeeming quality of magic, and you know nothing of it."

Hawke pursed her lips, feeling inadequate. "You would rather Anders at your side?"

"No."

"I wish he was here, I should've asked him to come- may be one of them has a poultice, I'll look." She scrambled to her feet and scurried over to the slain bodies, turning them over and quickly ransacking their possessions for anything medicinal.

"You unfastened your clothes." he observed and Hawke remembered her bared back and low-riding bodice, and hitched it up higher.

"Yes, couldn't breathe."

"You thought he referred to me. What kind of whore carries a sword, Hawke." She pursed her lips, acceding the logic and felt foolish.

I think I found something." She held up a flask of liquor and ran back. "Will this help?"

"I could use a drink" he smirked. Hawke gave him an exasperated look.

"I'll pull out the bolt, wash the wound off with this-I've seen Mother do it, and then staunch the bleeding."

He nodded in agreement, "I'll need bandages."

"I don't have any-" then her eyes fell on the mass of broad ribbons cascading down her shoulder. She reached over and ripped off the large bow, quickly unravelling the length of ribbon into long strips of silk. "Ready?"

Fenris nodded, gritting his teeth and she wrapped her fingers around the shaft, now slick with blood. She closed her eyes and yanked. His hand closed around her wrist and he gripped so tightly she couldn't feel her fingers yet his face remained grim and stoic against the pain and she swallowed her own discomfort.

"Brace yourself," she opened the flask and poured it over the gaping tear. He bit back a scream, his face contorted in pain and Hawke steeled herself, pressing the makeshift pad into place and wrapping the ribbon tightly around his shoulder. If only Anders were here. She wondered how long it would take to fetch him.

She should have anticipated violence, and come prepared. Darktown was always trouble and now Fenris was hurt and it was all her fault. She slid her free hand around the back of his neck and stroked her fingers through his hair. It was slick with blood and sweat and her stomach turned at the thought of the pain he was in. The pristine, lily white silk oozed crimson. "If you die on me, I'll chase you through the Fade."

"That is what Danarius would say." It stung like a slap. Hawke felt colour on her cheeks and looked away. Her hand was blue, she focused on the splotched skin and willed her eyes dry. He relaxed his grip at last and her flesh tingled to life, erupting in pins and needles. "I suppose the view does make bleeding to death more agreeable."

The bodice no longer held up by the bow had slipped down to her waist and she blushed a brilliant red that began in the centre of her white, exposed chest. She covered herself as best she could. Her clothes were completely ruined. There were smears of blood and dirt glistening on the pale purple raw silk. She tried to remember how much the outfit had cost and couldn't. Memories had become lodged in her throat, thoughts of a rosy girl with raven hair and chestnut eyes who was good and kind, whose life should have been peachy and idyllic, full of love and laughter and babies and all the things her youthful heart desired, not cut short because of Hawke's failings.

"That's it? You're just going to give up?" Her voice came out choked, "-get up. On your feet- I won't allow it." but her tone was hard and sharp as a blade.

It helped that he was not a whole lot bigger than her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and heaved him up to his feet. It would be a long walk to the clinic, but she would get him there.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Drop a review, make my day!  
><strong>


	15. Testimonies: Lord Friedrich

**Friedrich**

"My dear Serah Meeran,

It is my fervent hope that this letter finds you in enviable spirits. I find myself inordinately delighted this afternoon over a most auspicious turn of luck in my favour!

Not more than two hours past, I found myself beset by blackguard assassins just outside the gate as I ventured beyond to observe first hand the plight of our refugees (which is most unfortunate, indeed).

There I found myself accosted by some corrupted elements from among those thronging the docks. Fortunately enough, these Fereldan miscreants (including a tolerably attractive woman who, if I may suggest, might be better suited to turning tricks at the _Rose_ than shake-downs) were easily bought by the lowly sum of 2 sovereigns – I doubt these vagabonds imagine what a golden opportunity slipped through their inept grasp. I am surely good for twenty times more!

I do hope my experience will forewarn you from going outside without guards!

Faithfully yours,

F."

_- From among the Letters of Lord Friedrich of Hightown_


	16. 13 Serendipity

**Author's Note**

As always, a tip of the hat to **strangegibbon** my wonderful beta, lovely friend and fellow perv-in-arm. Liability for any mistakes is mine, but you can blame her for distracting me with doctor-doms wrestling six feet tall bedsheet-clad drama queens. Thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites, and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys motivate me!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to BioWare.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>13. Serendipity<br>**_

There was no question that the Tevinter Revival was the very picture of imposing stateliness. It occupied an advantageous situation in the central piazza of the new extension to Hightown Estates - an ambitious project that had made certain less prominent carriers of the Bran family name very wealthy. Five tall columns upheld a grandiose pediment inlaid with scrolling stonework and gables buffed to within a satiny inch of their lives shimmered in the tender starlight. Lovely as it was, the neighbourhood had yet to lose that gleam of _newness_ or acquire any distinguishing marks of character very much like the families (the Friedrichs and de Carracs to name a few others) that had moved into residence.

Hawke shivered in the pre-dawn chill and shifted impatiently on her feet while she waited to be shown inside. On his haunches in front of her the Mabari watched with a resigned glower, unhappily remembering the comfortable repose before the main hall fire from which he had been dragged. So complete was his misery that he could not even be roused to show interest in the cat that darted across the street and vanished under the rather homesick looking cypress hedge transplanted from who knew where.

Thankfully though the Butler returned before long, nightgown exchanged for hastily donned livery but looking no less bedraggled than before, and ushered her through the silent house and into the library. Seneschal Bran was waiting for her behind a carved stone desk at least two generations older than himself wearing a royal blue chenille house robe and a fearsome scowl.

"What could _you_ possibly need to discuss that is so important it couldn't wait till Monday?" He snapped without preamble.

Hawke took a moment to exult in imminent victory, letting her mouth curve into an open smile. "Is that how you greet all your friends? No wonder they're so grouchy."

His glare intensified, becoming a shade more indignant. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Don't worry, this isn't a social call," she continued, making herself comfortable on his plush visitor chair, fingering the baubles on his table and putting on a show of lounging as much as possible. "I happened to stumble across some wayward letters you wrote and being as fond of _favours_ as I am thought you'd want them back before the rest of the town caught wind."

Impossibly, Bran's frown deepened and heat crept up his face in fevered pink streaks. "Make your purpose clear." He said in a clipped tone.

Hawke yawned, jabbing her finger at the ink pot floating in a gimbal cradle to make it spin distractingly. "Is this Tevinter? Everything they make is so ridiculously _ugly_."

"You are trying my patience, Serah."

Hawke leaned back in the chair, clasping her hands over her stomach and found she had no need to feign exhaustion. Every muscle trembled in evidence. "I can't imagine what Serendipity sees in you. You are no fun at all."

The result was instant. A strangled sound escaped his throat and he bolted upright, shoving back the heavy chair, sending quills clattering to the floor. Hawke searched for the curls of smoke sure to spew from his ears as his face turned a dark, angry crimson. "How _dare_ you!" He managed, mouthing furiously.

"_Lady-boys_, Seneschal? Didn't peg you for the sort and I have an eye for such things." The Seneschal's amber eyes glittered dangerously and Hawke wondered if the vein throbbing at his temple might burst at any moment.

"That ratty healer, your friend isn't he? He will _regret_ this." He hissed coiling serpent-like in his chair.

Hawke slid forward, discarding her easy posture and letting her features harden. "He'll do no such thing, you'll ensure it."

Emotions raced across his countenance - anger, fear, uncertainty, hate, all grappling until he subdued each one and regained some composure. "My reputation is above reproach. No one will believe this assertion."

"I thought you might say that." Hawke nodded sagely, and placed the evidence before him.

Colour drained rapidly from his face leaving only a scarlet dusting on the cheeks. Hawke noticed the perspiration shining along his forehead, the tremor in his hand as he fingered the crumpled letter. He steepled his hands against his mouth thoughtfully. "You made a mistake coming here. Did you think walking out after this would be as simple as walking in?""

A frisson of fear snaked through her and she froze, fighting the urge to glance around the room, trying to recall the placement of exits and potential weapons from memory with only moderate success. She hadn't considered this thoroughly enough, hadn't accounted for Fenris' attrition. How many guards would he have within earshot? Heat gathered in the back of her neck, hairs prickling. How long until someone noticed her missing and asked questions? _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

"Wiser men than you have said the same; why, some were even dressed!" She bluffed, struggling to keep her voice flippant, her face blank. "Do you see them here? It would be a mistake to underestimate me."

Bran glared back uncertainly. "What do you want? _Gold_?"

She relaxed a shade, quietly releasing the clutch on her lungs and letting air back in as her heart beat violently against her chest, outwardly as serene as ever. "Now you're on the right track. Shall we say, a letter for a letter?"

Hawke returned home just as dawn broke over Kirkwall. There was a slight scattering of cloud in the sky, not enough to threaten rain but enough to promise it would be breezy and pleasant. In the eastern horizon, a burst of colour heralded the new day, staining the sky in brilliant streaks of violet and indigo.

Hightown was a hive of activity. Workers had toiled all night to hang up the colourful banners and streamers that now fluttered gaily all over the district. Giant urns overflowing with cut spring flowers lined the parade route and a florid arbor of marigold crisscrossed above the Viscount's Way. Wind chimes tinkled and lanterns swayed, the morning breeze heavy with the scent of blossoms. People scurried urgently, taking down ladders and scaffolding, making last minute changes and alterations as the day took birth.

For as long as Kirkwall had stood, there had always been a celebration in Spring. In the days of the Imperium, the rituals honoured the Old God Urthemiel and the celebrations lasted a whole twelve days but though the old ways had not endured the Pageant survived, evolving an Andrastian flavour to appease the new clergy.

The itinerary was simple. The Viscount would the lead all the principle families at the head of a grand procession along the main Avenue to the Chantry for an open air sermon, after which the floats would lumber onward through the city to be displayed at Market Fair while dignitaries mingled over luncheon hosted by the Grand Cleric. Then in the evening, the court would reconvene for a Ball at the Keep.

It was a silent, sleeping house that greeted her when Hawke reached home and she stretched and yawned, arching her back to ease the stiff muscles. Her shoulders throbbed as she limped to the stool in the foyer to stretch out the cramps in her legs and examine her blistered feet. Dragging Fenris through the winding alleys and steep stairwells of Darktown in an urgency born of knowing the longer she took, the heavier he leaned on her, his strength seeping through the make-shift bandage and trailing behind them in a stream of crimson, had exacted a heavy toll. The mirror above the console table in the entrance reflected the dark rings under her sunken eyes and cheeks. She looked sickly and exhausted and drew in a long, deep breath evaluating whether her make-up skills would be equal to the challenge.

Heading to the kitchen, Hawke leaned against the island in the centre of the large space and stared out into the courtyard, reflecting on her actions. A sparrow chirped on the window sill and flitted across the flagstone and shadows retreated slowly before the march of daylight. She wondered whether there was time to snatch an hour or two of repose but discarded the thought just as quickly - there still so much to oversee.

Her mind ground relentlessly and she made a list of tasks for Bodahn and Orana, coaxing herself over all the little things that needed attention. When it became impossible to ignore the shaking of her hands, she laid down the quill in favour of wolfing down a hunk of cold meat and some cheese. A glass of milk and a handful of dried prunes followed and only then did she realise how hungry she had been. Abandoning the dishes on the counter, she returned to the main hall and sifted through the mail on her desk for anything urgent.

There were two missives from Aveline. The first requesting, then another from just the day before, _demanding _action in the Ser Emeric case which had not yet been replied to; no wonder Aveline was feeling sour. Hawke crinkled her brow, irked by her friend's insistence. The matter was not her responsibility in the first place. She saw herself a socialite, a businesswoman, a mage, a sometime extortionist of public officials - not one of Aveline's lieutenants. She had a less than minimal interest in aiding templars or associating with them. No, it was in her best interests to keep her head down and maintain a distance. But all objections aside, the truth was she had been too occupied to follow up on Gascard Dupuis. She tapped her chin, considering.

On the one hand, her friend had no one else to turn to and it might be wise to cultivate favour with a select templar or two but on the other, she really had too many things prioritised above playing consulting detective. It was decided then, a few dead women she had never known could wait a little longer for justice and retribution.

The letters trashed, she sorted through the rest of her mail. There was a perfectly gracious note from Mistress Selby welcoming her to some fictitious charity that was an obvious cover for her real operation, along with a demand for a rather substantial donation. She was about to crumple it up when another thought occurred. Charity could be so beautifully tax deductible. She placed it in her journal with a smile.

Her mind drifted to Fenris again. By the time she had hauled him to Anders, he had been far too faint from blood loss to make a fuss and had passed out whilst Anders stitched him back up. Now he was sleeping off the sedation at the clinic. He would wake up, sulk and be fine but the thought of the whole incident squeezed her heart until the anxiety was paralysing.

What had gotten into her? It was a stretch to even consider their relationship friendly. He was useful, yes, and reliable, always. She had wanted to bed him and she had, and now he was a constant, barbed reminder of rejection and the embarrassing failure to conform to her own rules. The need for his validation compromised her judgement and this was the biggest weakness of all. She had only to look at her mother to be reminded of where it led. It wasn't practical, it wasn't wise. It was an indulgence she could never afford. Two months ago, three months ago, she had not felt this way. Or had she? How long had these feelings lurked insidiously in her heart and escaped her vigilance? It had to end. She had to purge him from her system. Yet the thought of never seeing him again - she could scarcely bear to consider it.

Steps heavy with fatigue she climbed up the staircase to her bedroom, glancing regretfully at the remains of the lavender dress discarded earlier in the night. She unfastened her new outfit, tossing it on the dressing table stool, and slipped into the soft linen robes she used for pottering around the house. The armchair by the darkened fireplace tempted her and she stared longingly at her bed.

An hour of rest wouldn't hurt, would it? And it would really help her back. Fenris was heavier than he looked. In the afternoon she would visit him, bring him back to his mansion. He would need a stock of food at hand until he recovered. It wouldn't do to send Bodahn, he would take offence and chase him away. No, it had to be her. Maker, she was so tired. She sat down to put up her legs for a minute and breathed in deeply. In a few moments the clock would strike, the servants would arrive and she could see about getting everything done.

Two hours later, Hawke woke up in the same chair and panicked. She glanced at the window, balked at how high the sun had climbed and scrambled out of her room, yelling hysterically.

"Orana!" She doubled over the mezzanine balustrade to read the hall clock, "Oh _Maker!" _She scrambled for her mother's bedroom, "Orana! Get in here. Now!"

The door opened just as she reached for it, and the elf girl peeked outside. Hawke stumbled trying to avoid collision, head swimming with the sudden motion and it took her a moment to right herself. "There you are- where's Mother? We need to leave in half an hour."

"Marian - merciful Andraste, you look a fright." Leandra gaped at her from the window seat where she was seated at breakfast. The crystal vase with the Harlot's Blush sat proudly on the table before her. "Were you out again last night with that dreadful girl? I can't imagine what you do all night. It's taking a toll you know, there are dark circles under your eyes."

"Did you not read my note?" She ignored her mother and glared at Orana. "I left a note on the kitchen counter- we have to be at the Keep in less than an hour for the parade. You have readied our clothes- please don't tell me you haven't!" She was frantic.

"I cannot read, Mistress," Orana admitted sheepishly.

"What!" Marian thought her head would explode.

"But I had Bodahn read it to me. The morning clothes are ready- I will fetch them at once."

"Good," she exhaled in relief, rubbing her forehead, "be quick about it. Hurry- why didn't someone wake me, _Sweet Merciful Andraste!_"

"What's this all about, Marian?" Leandra looked at her. "Thank you for the flowers, they're quite lovely though this particular blossom, it's a bit rude isn't it?"

Hawke walked over and helped herself to one of the crumpets. "I'm sorry Mother. I meant to bring you this sooner but I overslept." She laid the thick, vellum envelope on the table in front of her. The gilded edges caught the sun streaming in from the window and gleamed. In the very centre, Seneschal Bran's elegant cursive script spelled out _'Lady Leandra Amell & Family'_ in wine coloured ink.

"Oh, Marian, is this-?" she reached for the much coveted invitation with trembling fingers and drew out the card, her voice cracking with emotion. "Oh my dear, sweet daughter- how did you...?" There were tears in her eyes.

Hawke grinned and wrapped her arms around her mother's neck, kissing her forehead. "I confronted Seneschal Bran with the truth and he couldn't bear to refuse me."

The ill-timed doze had set her back on several fronts. Hawke was ultimately unhappy with the hired carriage; the yellow daffodils that adorned it clashed horribly with their colours. Leandra's matching parasol was untraceable and she was forced to make do with an older one that did not perfectly coordinate with her clothes. Little flaws that were a source of vexation but about which there was nothing she could do within the constraints of time. Yet, despite every adversity, the Amell carriage finally made it in time to join the procession.

The avenue in front of the Keep was a riot of colour and grand spectacle. Richly hued banners billowed in the air emblazoned with crests of the proudest Hightown families, gold and silver coats-of-arms gleaming in the morning sun. Bright spring flowers were everywhere, festooning the walls, the carriages, the ladies in fashionable morning dress, in the garlands above the pedestrian section of the Viscount's Way and flowing out of urns lining the meandering drive.

At the head of the parade was the Viscount's ornate carriage in deep regency indigo. The stylised falcon with displayed wings etched in gold upon the sides. Coachmen and outriders in purple livery and gold-fringed epaulettes stood at attention. A contingent of the City Guard came next in full ceremonial kits, red plumes flowing from shiny silverite helms. Aveline rode vanguard on a proud destrier, coat a gleaming blue-black and full mane tossing luxuriously with every bob of head. The Viscount's band rounded up the party, drummers beating and pipers playing while everyone waited for marching orders.

The various noble houses lined up behind. The Brans leading the pack, their black raven on maroon livery distinctive amongst the rest. Lady Eliza Bran stood under a yellow parasol flanked by her son, chatting with Lady Asheril and her three blond daughters. The Asherils' royal blue stagecoach was nearby, branded with their white dove insignia. All five paused in their speech, eyes narrowing in surprise as the Hawkes passed them by and Marian could not help but wave and smile triumphantly over the turnabout and the scandalous secret she harboured. They passed the yellow rooster of the Harimanns and the dark green banner of the de Launcets embossed with a silver swallow. The spot next to them had been taken by Lord Friedrich's vermilion colours.

"That used to be our place, beside the de Launcets." Leandra recalled with nostalgia, her nose against the glass window.

"I'll see what we can do about it next year, Mother- it's a little late to oust Lord Friedrich right now."

Leandra took Marian's hand and squeezed her fingers, regarding her fondly with moist eyes. "That would be so lovely."

The Hawkes found a place next to Ghyslain de Carrac who seemed to have fared no worse for his wife's unfortunate demise and was currently rumoured to be vying for the hand of the eldest Miss Friedrich.

No sooner had the coachman positioned the carriage and unfurled the crimson-on-silver Hawke standard that the fanfare trumpeted loudly, calling the parade to attention. Marian peered outside the window as Aveline and two senior lieutenants cantered past for final review and slipped a small wave that was acknowledged by no more than a pursing of lips and the barest tip of helm. The band switched to march past. The Honour Guard trotted out first, boxing in the Viscount's flag bearer and Marlowe Dumar himself; the rest of the procession fell in behind.

For three long years, Marian Hawke had watched the parade from the sidelines, just one more nameless Fereldan face in the starstruck crowd. Though she lamented being placed at the tail end of the Hightown contingent, her presence there at all was worthy of a fairy tale. Less certain was whether it was Serendipity or her own inveigling, that she had to thank for it.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**I'd love to hear your thoughts, don't be shy!  
><strong>


	17. 14 A Ball for Cinderella

**Author's Note**

First, a heartfelt note of thanks to my BFF **strangegibbon**. She's the very bestest beta ever. Seriously, _ever_. Thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites, and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys motivate me!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to BioWare.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>14. A Ball for Cinderella<em>**

A huge chandelier of glittering Nevarran crystal spiralled gracefully down from the vaulted ceiling above the very centre of the Grand Ballroom. The whole hall was awash in its dazzling golden light and twinkling rainbow flashes as if it were some gigantic centrepiece jewel in a crown.

The rest of the cavernous room was equally resplendent. Candelabras draped in fine silk and gossamer decked with pale roses, calla lilies and azaleas lit up the affair. Gilt framed paintings and rich tapestries of legends and battles past adorned the walls. Whereas the morning ceremony had been a riot of spring flowers and natural bounty, the evening's festivity was the glittering pinnacle of luxury and grandeur.

The usually dark and forbidding interior of the Viscount's Keep, a legacy of Kirkwall's Imperial past, was completely transformed - brightly illuminated, richly splendid, warm and welcoming. A full orchestra arrayed in the middle of the mezzanine emanated sweet notes of string, brass and wind which trickled into the hall below to mingle with the din of conversation, the tinkle of laughter and the chink of cocktail glasses. Ladies in evening gowns and sparkling jewels bobbed on a sea of swishing skirts and luxuriant trains and gentlemen weaved in and out around them.

At present, with the Ball yet to commence, people mingled over drinks and Marian canvassed the selection of eligible men in the gathering to wear on her arm for the opening polonaise. It was expected of her to join the presentation before the Viscount along with all the young ladies attending for the first time and her mother had made it clear that she could hardly do so without an escort, a very tall order given that most gentlemen were spoken for weeks in advance.

Leandra chattered ceaselessly at her side with Madame Pompadour, Ghyslain de Carrac's former mother-in-law. Marian was not feeling much inclined to conversation, partially because of anxiety and partially because Flora Harimann carried off peach vastly better than she did. She popped cherries into her mouth and listened to her mother regale everyone with stories from her youth with a slight grimace of a smile.

Quite unexpectedly, her name spoken in a voice she had not heard in over two years snatched her attention."Sister," Hawke spun around, her jaw falling slack at the sight of her brother, "you look different."

He stood a pace away, in full templar garb and gestured disconcertedly when she turned around. When he had seen her last, she had peroxide blonde hair, freckled skin and only one change of clothes.

The intervening years had left their mark on Carver too and there were lines in his forehead that had not been there when he was still her little brother and not a templar. His eyes were as blue as ever, the same shade as hers and his hair was the glossy raven they had inherited from Malcolm Hawke. They regarded each other in awkward silence – neither knowing what to say to the other as they absorbed the passage of time. Finally, she found her voice.

"Carver- you look," her mouth lifted in a smirk, "very _templar-y_, all ready to smite down an apostate or two."

At that, Leandra turned around and dissolved at once into motherly effusion, clasping him to her chest and smothering him with kisses. Carver did his utmost to mitigate the display, mindful of the glances that fell across the little family reunion.

"Hello Mother, I didn't expect to see you here," he said taking hold of her shoulders as much out of affection as to keep her from embarrassing him further.

"Oh, we get around, Carver. You would know, if you'd bothered to visit your family." Marian responded, with a little more edge than she'd intended.

"The Knight-Commander has been keeping us very busy, things have been tense in the Circle." He explained, not meeting her gaze but not looking particularly sheepish either. "I wrote letters."

"Oh, my dear, sweet child- how I've missed you! They ought to let you visit your mother- where is Knight-Commander Meredith? I'll plead with her myself," Leandra looked just about ready to do that much to Carver's horror.

"Oh, no, no. There's no point. How have you been Mother? You look well."

"We've been very well, actually. Moved back into the old place this winter past." Hawke supplied immediately though she knew that her mother had written to him more than once about their rising fortune. "How time flies, hardly feels like yesterday you were whining about templars and now look at you – full of righteous might."

"I've risen in the ranks, I'm Knight-Corporal now." He looked self-satisfied but Hawke thought there was a shade of reservation attached to the announcement.

Leandra beamed. "I'm so proud of you."

She shot a glance at her mother and bristled. "So now you get to do as you're told but with more stripes on your shoulder. _Bravo_."

Carver glared at her, jaw setting in a firm line as his eyes flashed, "You were holding me back."

"I was holding us _together_," she countered.

"Marian! Be nice- we haven't seen him in years," cut in Leandra and Hawke relented. "Tell me all about it, Carver-"

Leaving her mother to dote, Hawke strolled to the trestle table and refilled her punch glass, watching the reunion from a distance. It wasn't that she was unhappy to see him, he was Bethany's twin and her little brother and perhaps that was why what she had taken as his desertion had been so difficult to swallow. She had counted on having him at her back, had needed him but he had abandoned them on a whim and for what? A half-arsed attempt at teenage rebellion and a dose of self-righteousness. She wanted to sit him down and smack him in the head.

"Oh, I know that look."

Marian looked up at the familiar brogue and smiled brightly. "Sebastian Vael!"

He was even more splendid in ceremonial dress than usual, gleaming white, gold and silver, his ruddy complexion aglow and chestnut hair glinting. She held out her hand and he took it, brushing his lips over her knuckles politely.

"I didn't expect to see you." Marian exclaimed, glad the expectation had been subverted. Her mind wasted no time processing this fortuitous turn of events into a solution for her pressing debut problem. "Did you have good luck on your mission?"

"Apparently so, and it concluded earlier than I thought." He released her hand and turned to watch Leandra's animated conversation with Carver. "May I presume that is your brother? I noticed the family resemblance."

"The rebel without a cause."

Sebastian smiled, "Younger than you?"

"Why, your Highness, do I look that old?" Hawke ribbed good-naturedly.

"No, no. I merely meant that I can relate. My parents had the heir and a spare and then they had me. They didn't know what to do with me for the longest time."

"Those poor hearts you were breaking all over Starkhaven, it must've been a national crisis!"

He cleared his throat to hide a ghost of a smile and glanced at his shoes. "They were the indiscretions of my past."

Hawke caught his eyes and placed a plump red cherry on her lips, sucking on it sweetly before popping it in her mouth. "And what of the indiscretions of your present?"

"Service to the Maker is my present." He smiled and it made a darling dimple in the middle of his cheek.

Marian smiled back, nipping her lower lip and raised her glass. "Then here's to your future."

The apples of his cheeks became dusted with pink and he glanced at her family again, "If I may offer a humble opinion: I find that a little freedom to make our own mistakes goes a long way in bringing us back into the Maker's light."

Hawke sipped from her glass and looked at Carver and Leandra, feeling some of her aggravation dissipate. "Let me introduce you to him, Mother will be so glad to know you are returned."

"Please, by all means," he said, falling in step beside her as she glided through the guests towards them.

As predicted, Leandra was delighted when Marian approached with her trophy and leapt forward, cutting Carver off mid-sentence.

"Oh, your Highness- _Sebastian_- my dear boy - you're back!" she declared in too loud a voice that Hawke was certain was meant for the benefit of the ladies standing proximate.

"Lady Amell," he gave her a warm smile and bent over her hand formally, "A pleasure, as always."

Hawke caught Carver by the sleeve and pulled him closer, "May I present my brother Ser Carver, Sebastian."

They met pleasantly. Sebastian praised him for choosing a vocation in the service of the Lord and Carver nodded solemnly trying and failing to mask his doubts. All the while Leandra struggled to rein in her excitement as her mind raced over the implications of Sebastian's early arrival, Carver's re-emergence quite superseded. "It's so good to have you home," she edged in, as soon as there was an appropriate lull. "You will be taking part in the dancing this evening, won't you dear?"

Sebastian nodded. "Certainly, now that I am here."

"I don't think Marian has promised away all her dances, you have a chance if you hurry." Leandra assured him.

Sebastian gaped, taken completely by surprise. "I suppose-" He shifted his weight and looked at Hawke, picking over his next words. Marian encouraged him with a slight smile. "Might I request your favour for a dance?"

She glanced at her mother who looked back at her gleefully, nodding her head in case her daughter was in need of a prompt for the right answer. Carver frowned at them both and found something interesting to examine on his right sleeve. Sebastian waited awkwardly for the axe to fall. Marian let the smile on her face bloom, arched her neck to look up at him and tipped her head coyly, quite enjoying herself. She was in her element; this was her moment and she was basking in it.

"Sebastian?"

Before Marian could answer, the moment was gone and she turned her head to look at the thief who had stolen it, a scowl flitting across her face.

"What a pleasant surprise! I thought you would be out of town still!"

Flora Harimann stood smiling happily. The lights glinted off her shiny auburn hair and in her large hazel brown eyes, wide with excitement. Her skin was radiant, her cheeks pink, her lips rosy and full. She was a vision in peach taffeta fringed with daintily sparkling rose tulle, a ruched frill trim lining her sensible square neckline and the short off-the-shoulder sleeves. A lovely lace and peacock feather fan dangled from her hand and Marian suddenly remembered that her own lay on the mantelpiece in her room. Suddenly she was acutely conscious of her tired pallor and the dark circles hastily repaired with make-up and for the first time she felt a pang of regret for choosing the unforgiving combination of red and black - it did very little to disguise her sins from the nights past.

"Flora," Sebastian turned toward her with a full, dimpled smile that reached all the way to his eyes. He covered the two steps between them and took her hand. "Good to see you." Hawke watched the exchange with a narrow-eyed glare that neither seemed to notice. "How are your parents, and Ruxton and Brett?"

"Um, they are well I suppose," she replied, as if a little uncertain.

Sebastian was full of friendly concern. "Is there something wrong?"

"Oh no, nothing is wrong. It's the renovations taking a toll on everyone – they've been going on for so long and Mother is obsessing." She shook her head and skipped past to pleasanter concerns. "Are you here for the Ball?" she asked brightly.

Hawke hated her silly smile and the way her eyes danced over his face. In her peripheral vision, Leandra implored her silently to action and Marian rallied, pulling her train up and sallying forth to stake her claim. Flora's interference was completely unacceptable, she needed him for the Polonaise and in all fairness had seen him _first_.

"I'm pursuing a lead in town," he was saying and looked at Hawke with a smile as she glided towards them, "and of course to join my friends in celebration – Flora, have you met Serah Hawke?

Flora turned but on seeing Marian her radiant smile dimmed several notches. Hawke acknowledged her with a smile that was more a baring of teeth. "Of course. We've met at Chantry."

"How do you do?" There was no change in her cheery intonation but the warmth in Flora's voice had evaporated.

"Very well, thank you." Hawke replied in a voice as icy as the Frozen Wastes.

Sebastian, being male, remained blissfully ignorant of these undercurrents and Flora, having discharged the minimum dues of courtesy turned to him, placing a hand over his forearm where Hawke could not possibly miss it. "I'm so happy you're here. It wouldn't have been the same without you," her smile channelled the full power of the Nevarran chandelier. "I'll save you the grand cotillion."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Hawke interjected gleefully and this time her grin was quite genuine, reaching all the way to her eyes, making them glint as hard and blue as sapphires. "Sebastian has already asked me to favour him for the evening."

Then, just to see the look on Flora Harimann's shocked and indignant face, she leaned up on tip-toe and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek for good measure.

Marian Hawke had a talent for making a grand entrance and it did not fail her that evening when she debuted last in the polonaise with Sebastian Vael on her arm, prince of Starkhaven and but for his unfortunate dedication to the Chantry one of the most eligible bachelors in the Free Marches. Given that her welcome in the gathering was thin and speculation of her sudden overnight inclusion rife this additional accomplishment garnered plenty of envious resentment. It was not just that _Jean Luc's_ cascading train in deep carmine with black and silver osprey feathers in the flounces was stunning or that the daring strapless bodice moulded over her bustline in scandalous Orlesian fashion set tongues wagging all evening, it was simply that Hawke, Fereldan refugee and _nouveau riche_ commoner had arrived and Hightown society seemed powerless before the siege she had laid upon them.

The other debutantes, which included the youngest Miss Asheril and Friedrich as well as Louise de Launcet, a distant cousin and ward of Comte de Launcet were distinguished by their fresh-faced, demure self-consciousness and modest girlish pastels. Marian was as inconspicuous in their midst as a wolf among sheep. For the matrons, she was evidence of the moral decline they lamented everyday, to the lords her presence was an imperious encroachment over class lines but to her peers she was an enigma, shocking and fascinating all at once and Hawke devoured the attention.

Afterwards they gathered in the centre of the hall for the opening cotillion. While parading came naturally enough, dancing was an acquired skill, frantically inculcated by Leandra in anticipation of the ball. When Sebastian bent at the waist, she dipped a little courtesy quickly revising the steps in her mind and stealing a reminder where memory failed. There was a second of confusion when she moved to circle in the wrong direction but it was quickly resolved and soon they were moving synchronously.

As they swept through the other pairs, Marian searched for a glimpse of Leandra in the crowd, locating her at a table with her great rival Flora Harimann (who having debuted at the ideal age of eighteen, was smugly sitting out the first dance) and the other ladies. They were all watching her but it was her mother's expression that bore the greatest expectation. Leandra was transported to her own youth and was reliving it vicariously and it was no longer enough for Hawke to simply participate, she had to outdo everyone else, be the belle of the ball; it was up to her to capture that lost glory, to live up to her mother's nostalgia and justify that long-ago whimsy of which she was the product.

"You're frowning." It took a moment for Hawke to break free of her reverie and look up at Sebastian. "Is dancing not your pleasure?"

She smoothed her expression at once, replacing the furrows with a luminescent smile, "Of course, I am-"

"Too tense," he observed with a disarming smile. "It is more fun if you let go of the worries."

"But I'm a poor blushing maiden in the arms of a Prince," she deflected with an answering smile and a mischievous glint in her eye.

Sebastian blushed and paused to cleared his throat before continuing, deftly stepping around her come-on, "Would you allow me to lead so you may have the chance to relax?"

"Oh! By all means." Hawke acquiesced, a little mortified she had put up such a fight.

"And you may want to correct your posture," he whispered softly in her ear as they came together again. "You lean too far forward." She complied slowly. "That's much better." He smiled and his tone was much too gentle to have meant an affront but it required effort to remember it in that moment. "You are a wonderfully quick study." She smiled back wanly, trying to accept the compliment the spirit in which it was given but finding her spirits dampened a hair.

Still, Sebastian knew what he was doing and it was easier to follow his lead then struggle to pre-empt him and before long she was sweeping across the floor as effortlessly as anyone else. Then it was time to switch, Sebastian slipped away and Hawke watched him approach Margrette Asheril, greeting her with the same pleasant affability he accorded everyone. She was a pretty girl, somewhat willowy and thin and moved like she had been dancing since she turned six. Marian glared at them darkly. Sebastian was smiling, Margrette Asheril was giggling demurely and didn't appear to need the benefit of any pithy pointers.

"Allow me to make your acquaintance." A thick Orlesian accent interrupted her bitter reverie and Hawke turned her head to stare at the man in front of her. He was tall and lean with soft brown hair that brushed his shoulders, matching tawny eyes and a sharp, angular face not at all unpleasant to look upon. He bent at the waist with a flourish. "Gascard DuPuis, Mademoiselle." Hawke raised an eyebrow at the familiar name, curtseying back.

"An honour, Serah," she answered carefully, taken aback by the appearance of Ser Emeric's alleged serial killer at a spring dance before she remembered that he lived in the Estates.

"Let me me extend my welcome, you have moved to Hightown recently as I've learnt, yes?" Hawke nodded, forcing a smile as they fell into a step, "The town is ablaze with talk of the Amells – the gracious Lady Leandra and the beautiful Miss Amell."

"I prefer Hawke."

He pulled her close and reeled her into a dip, "as you like, ma belle."

And just like that it became easy to hold on to the smile she'd forced and soon it was difficult to keep her expression serene and not to grin delightedly as he propelled her across the dance floor, spinning her around so quickly it was almost dizzying. She was completely enraptured. People parted as he twirled her about on her toes, the magnificent osprey feather flounces cutting an arc on the hardwood, and when the music hit the final crescendo, he gripped her by the waist, lifting her high in the air, head and shoulders above everyone else. Flushed pink and grinning, the caution with which she had begun long waylaid, she was too thrilled to resist when he swept her into a dip so low, only his arm held her off the floor. It was all so wonderfully Orlesian and sophisticated and outrageous, leaving all the older ladies a titter, and by then Marian was thoroughly charmed.

Gascard DuPuis bowed and kissed her hand, "It was a pleasure, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur," Hawke replied breathlessly, her heart hammering, and it was only after he had left and the dance finished that she remembered his alleged crimes. If there was any justice in the world DuPuis ought to be innocent, she told herself. How could a man so gallant be a villain?

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Thanks for reading, and if you have a thought or two, I'd love to hear it!  
><strong>


	18. 15 The Belle of the Ball

**Author's Note**

Oodles of thanks to my BFF and editor **strangegibbon** whom when the occasion demands, I fondly dub **thewhiphand**. You can thank her swift wrist action for instilling discipline in place of my wavering. Many thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites and a very special thanks to those who reviewed. You keep me going!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **BioWare_._**

This story is rated T but this chapter detours through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>15. The Belle of the Ball<br>**_

"Who was that gentleman, Marian?" Leandra demanded right away, good humour tempered by reservation as Hawke coasted in for something to drink. Bursting with excitement, not even the sight of Sebastian's gilded regalia perfectly complementing Flora's blushing pink gown could dampen her spirits.

She rolled her eyes theatrically before answering. "Monsieur DuPuis? He's lives a few doors down from Fenris." She said, enjoying the immediate cloud that came over her mother's face.

"That name is unfamiliar to me, not one of the old families." Leandra observed, eyebrows knotting.

"He's from Montsimmard," offered Madame Pompidour, peering down her large beak of a nose through the pince-nez that perched over it. "Moved here some three winters past. He was received in my daughter's house a few times before-" she stuttered but with admirable composure, gathered herself and continued, "-before her disappearance."

Leandra and the other ladies made sympathetic noises while Hawke avoided her eyes in favour of scanning the crowd for a distraction, guilt sapping her good mood. Just because he knew those unfortunate victims did not make him guilty, she thought righteously. She found her diversion in the middle of the hall and gave out a little snort of amusement.

Donnic had dragged Aveline out on the dance floor and as the music melted into a waltz, was attempting to manoeuvre her in tune to it but without a sword and shield in hand, her footwork was hopeless and she turned an ever brighter shade of beetroot that brought out all the highlights in her copper hair. Hawke watched the pair waddle about the floor with a grin, regretting that Isabela could not be present to share the spectacle.

The Viscount's ball was traditionally less discriminating than the March of the Banners and the hall was teeming with petty lords and squires, templars and officers of the City Watch, even some of the more esteemed members of the various merchant guilds, all scrambling to rub shoulders with Kirkwall's elite. Before long, a stream of visitors thronged her table looking to be obliged for a dance and Leandra took it upon herself to mind Marian's dance card, guarding it like an unyielding master-of-kennel, turning down anyone whose pedigree she felt inadequate.

At first Hawke played along, humouring her mother and basking in the attention but as the evening progressed, she began to realise that for all the glamour, she was spending all her time cocktail in hand, surrounded by the gaggle of starry-eyed lowborn hopefuls while her peers swept past partnered with cherry picked companions that ought rightly to have been courting her.

_Jean Luc's _ballgown was exquisite and she was primped down to the last eyelash therefore the only explanation was also the most curdling - it was a deliberate slight. She may have muscled her way into the Ball but Hightown's subtle boycott had relegated her to the company of seedy merchants, boisterous Guardsmen, and skittish templars attached to the feast to pad its numbers.

Flora Harimann swished past, wide hooped skirts and ruffles bobbing a hair's breadth above the floor. The rhinestones encrusted in her bodice flashed in the dazzling illumination, as if the sequins themselves had stood up to mock her but worse still was seeing her arms around Sebastian while he chortled genuinely at something she whispered into his ear. What right had she over him anyway? Hawke scowled, grinding her teeth as Flora's face brightened in mirth. And what business had he dancing with another? It was too much. Hawke tossed her head and stood.

"Excuse me," she edged through the circle of admirers that had become too galling and marched along the perimeter of the floor, seething.

If the mountain would not come to Andraste, Andraste would go to the mountain. She reached the main knot of mingling gentlemen, feeling every bit as vilified as the prophetess herself but all she had was a goal and no clear means of achieving it.

Marlowe Dumar was seated at the long table with his high lords, a goblet of rich Antivan wine sloshing in his hand. Hawke noted that Lord Friedrich had managed to insert himself at the very end of the table and sat exulting happily in his little victory. She wondered how long it had taken him to win that honour. Once, to hear her mother tell it, her own grandfather had sat at the Viscount's table and she mused whether he had come by the position for no other reason than to accommodate his generous girth. Just in front of the dais, Seneschal Bran with his son Deaver - every inch his protege in pomposity, had managed to ensnare Saemus Dumar into a conversation, that Hawke guessed from the pained look on his face, was none too sympathetic of the Qunari.

It was just as well that the heir in distress needed a champion to rescue him and Hawke needed a quick leg up in social esteem. She glided over to interrupt brandishing her most fetching manner and as Seneschal Bran's upper lip curled in derision at the sight of her, she indulged in a quick wink to exacerbate his displeasure. Deaver glanced at her, took in her tight-fitting basque arrayed with delicate feathers and emitted a little plosive that was one part appreciative and two parts contemptuous. Only Saemus smiled back at her, his expression betraying his relief. He seemed a little more confident and how many quaffs of fortified wine could claim credit was anyone's guess.

"Serah Hawke, you look wonderful," he said graciously, taking her hand and tipping his head. "Thank you for honouring us with your presence this evening, I trust you are enjoying yourself?" He must have repeated the line countless times to make it through the delivery without stumbling even once.

She shook her head, "I most certainly am not," and gestured to the dance floor with a gloved hand. "I have been sitting out waltz after waltz to allow the homelier of my fellow girls a turn on the floor because the gentlemen here won't deign to join in!"

There was a moment of silence whilst all three men gaped at her audacity.

"I'm- I'm not much of a dancer," Saemus recovered first, more contrite than the others. Hawke threw him an encouraging smile and continued hotly, with theatrical indignity.

"Surely, politics can wait an evening, I doubt the Qunari will go anywhere while we make merry tonight, it's quite late and I hear they retire early."

"Women must be entertained at all costs, certainly," Seneschal Bran drawled sardonically, appending a hmph to the end of his comment, in case his opinion was still unclear.

Hawke smiled. "And a pox on anyone in their way!"

His glare was priceless. Even Deaver seemed taken aback by the acute hostility in it but he made a show of matching his father. "Charming, Serah." he sniffed, "Your talented tongue must be the root of your enduring popularity amongst the men." He tossed his head and turned to Saemus, "My lord, may I have your leave to seek my lady Caroline and beg her for a dance?"

"And I beg leave as well young Saemus," said the elder Bran. Father and son walked off before they could be given a response.

Saemus watched them leave, bewildered by the sparking animosity between the three. He turned to face her, looking embarrassed by the situation and at a loss for words.

"Beaver Bran - Beaver, Beaver! I bet that's what they called him in school." Hawke picked a pair of glasses off the tray of a passing server and handed one to him. He laughed softly and tracked the oblivious waiter some distance, amused both by Hawke's wit and prestidigitation.

"They did actually, Lorcan Threnhold and his friends. He hated it."

"You may thank me for that daring rescue," she said over the rim of the goblet and Saemus smiled. "Whatever they said about those poor Qunari, don't waste another thought on it!"

"Seneschal Bran would have them all pinned with identification numbers and make a central Qunari registry." He looked disgusted. Hawke wrinkled her nose. It sounded like a rather practical idea she thought but kept that opinion wisely to herself - better to let him think her a sympathiser than speak and shatter his hopes. Instead she sipped wine from her cup; it was nice, full bodied and well aged, fortified with Sun Blond Vint, infused with many flavourful notes that unravelled on her tongue and far more interesting to ponder than Qunari civil rights.

As the band struck up the next tune, Saemus held out his hand, "I'm afraid I have two left feet, but father would be angered if I didn't socialise and I would rather you than some empty-headed wallflower."

She soon learnt that he had not been modest about his dancing ability but since a Dumar was as close to royalty as Kirkwall approached, Hawke was more than willing to take the lead and forgive him. There were a lot of people crowding the floor as they whirled around and she passed Aveline and Donnic, still struggling to find a rhythm and even spotted her brother somewhere in the mix with a tall and elegant guardswoman. The heir of Kirkwall was quite fond of airing his views and his opinions were a constant stream in her face. Yet it was not entirely unpleasant and when the music graduated to a close, she had no worse opinion of him.

The orchestra took a short break and waiters in distinctive purple cummerbunds brought in fresh drinks. She helped herself to another cup of the potent vint, allowed Saemus to thank her and reiterated her invitation before making her way back to her mother's side.

Leandra sat flanked by Sebastian on one side and Flora perched on the other, massive hooped skirts arranged artfully around the chair. Hawke glanced at the scallops of vintage lace billowing underneath the taffeta and bit back a frown. Elsewhere in various positions were her brother, Aveline and Donnic. She grinned at the full quorum and settled in the chair Sebastian gallantly vacated to face the inevitable debriefing.

"Was that Saemus Dumar?" Leandra began with affected nonchalance, her voice breathy.

"He sent you his fondest regards, mother."

Her eyes widened in awe and then she nodded as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. "He's a very nice boy, Marian," she said and then after a short interlude, continued, "Seneschal Bran has a son about your age."

"Indeed, I ran into Deaver Bran. I also learnt his embarrassing childhood nickname."

Carver shook his head. Sebastian smirked, his blue eyes flitting over everyone. Aveline shifted her weight uncomfortably. Donnic and Flora remained passive.

"Oh dear grace, Marian, don't get any ideas. Young lords can be so querulous about such matters. It is better to just forget whatever you heard."

"I'll take his secret to the grave."

Leandra looked doubtful, "I worry about you, so young and so easily drawn into trouble-" She furrowed her brow and finally approached the crux of her angst, "Aveline says that gentleman you were with earlier, he's been tangled up with the law. I don't think you should be too friendly with him Marian, considering he's only been in the neighbourhood three years, and we know nothing about his family."

Hawke let out a spurt of laughter, turning to glare at Aveline who jutted her chin out adamantly, "Seriously? He's been cleared of charges - twice."

Leandra wrung her hands, increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and Hawke shook her head, amazed at her mother's capacity for selective recall. She seemed to have entirely forgotten shacking up with Uncle Gamlen in the slums all the time Gascard DuPuis had been making their current neighbourhood his home.

"A little caution is advisable," pressed Aveline and Hawke marvelled at her uncanny ability to channel the determination of a fighting bull in a _Jean Luc_ evening dress. "Given the stakes involved."

"It's not like there's a point reasoning with her or anything, my sister will do exactly as she pleases," Carver added bitterly and avoided her eyes while Hawke glowered.

Thankfully, the music returned then and she was spared from continuing the argument. The Grand Cotillion was announced and the Viscount rose from his chair, approaching first Elthina, then Meredith Stannard who also declined as expected until the honour finally rested upon the dowager Lady Bran.

Other lords and ladies followed, joining the rapidly propagating tail-end of the file around the room and Sebastian offered his arm, "My lady," he said and Hawke had to smile at his effortless gallantry, in spite of her vexation. They joined the march, falling in step with the music and Hawke decided to press the issue of his earlier lack of attention.

"You seemed quite taken with Miss Flora all evening and I wondered whether you would remember in time for the Cotillion what you had promised me."

Sebastian was startled enough to almost lose his rhythm, his cheeks flushed with colour and he turned to meet her gaze. There was shock, remorse and even a splash of defiance in his bright turquoise eyes. They were nearly the same shade as the Dumars' and she wondered if there was a mixing of blood somewhere up the line. She smiled.

"Flora is- we grew up together. Our families were very close. I couldn't ignore her besides, I thought you would not mind, you were engrossed in conversation with many of your... business partners at the time." He explained, "I am sorry, if I presumed wrongly."

Hawke mulled over his words carefully, and found, despite the overall tone of apology, not one admittance of fault and once this entered her notice, she found it quite rankling. Pursing her lips, she decided a little show of resentment would do the exiled Prince some good and offered him a cold smile, that pointedly fell short of her eyes.

He started to say something more, but suddenly it was time to switch partners and she found herself face to face with Vincente Friedrich. Tradition demanded Sebastian move to the other man's former partner and as luck would have it, this just happened to be Flora Harimann. She followed the conflict of emotions flickering across his expression while he wrestled with the situation and Marian made a point to smile excessively at Vincente, determined to reach under Sebastian's skin, and sparing no gambits from her arsenal in doing so. Sure enough, when circumstances allowed, he was eager to re-examine the subject.

"Hawke," he tried, his voice burdened with unhappy guilt. "I fear I have been inconsiderate of your feelings, I beg your forgiveness."

She nodded, avoiding his eyes, "There is no need. I hold you in the fondest regard, Sebastian."

"I had not thought - Maker help me, I feel drawn to a path I have forsworn -" He became exceedingly agitated as his feelings bounded away quicker than he could shepherd them and unravelled across his face. Hawke felt a flicker of pity for his distress but before she could reassure him, the dancing pulled them apart and he was gone from her side.

The reshuffling of partners suddenly produced her _nemesis du jour _and Deaver Bran narrowed his eyes, realising at the same time she did that chance had thrown them together. Oh, how it would injure Bran pride to suffer the layered insult of dancing with her. This victory was as sweet and complete as she could imagine. She curtsied gracefully and to press her advantage further, acknowledged him with a sly, "Beaver."

Deaver's brown eyes flashed murder and his mouth clamped into a rigid line. A tick flared to life at his temple, pulsating angrily. Without another word, and to the shock of everyone in proximity, he turned around and strode off the dance floor.

Leaving Hawke standing alone without a partner.

People stared open-mouthed. The dance line fell into disarray as the music marched on and those immediate to her lost interest in keeping pace to stare keenly at the unfolding drama. There were murmurs, shaking of heads, pitying clucks. And in the middle of it all, she stood alone, trying to absorb the shock of it and realised only when she blinked, how hot her face burned. A fatal miscalculation.

Leandra. Her mother would be devastated. Mind sluggish, she grasped for a way to control the situation and then suddenly, there was Gascard DuPuis filling her vision.

"Ma belle, may I have this dance?" he took her hand and bowed and Hawke released a breath she had no awareness of holding.

She nodded wordlessly and in a few moments the line was reformed, the dancing continued, the brief awkwardness glossed over yet it would not be forgotten. In minutes, the whole room would know and for weeks later, the nosiest old ladies of Hightown would dissect it to pieces in their little morning tea parties. Leandra would be humiliated. It made her numb and she had only the vaguest awareness that Gascard was asking something of her with his delightful Orlesian intonation and she nodded vacantly, every effort focused on keeping her expression pleasant and inscrutable as they weaved through the press of dancing couples, heading towards the far end of the hall and the stairs that led up.

It was sometime later and Hawke was feeling almost herself. She had a second consecutive goblet of wine nearly empty in her hand, her head was pleasantly unburdened and her mood was beginning to lift. Gascard DuPuis was telling her delightfully wicked tales about Val Royeaux as they lounged in one of the alcoves in the library, with paintings and tapestries, the soft lighting all around casting everything in a rosy glow.

"The masquerade - you would love it, everyone is hidden behind a masque," he said, gesturing to his face.

"Then how do you tell each other apart?"

He placed his arms beside her on the chaise and leaned forward, whispering right next to her cheek. His breath brushed her skin and she felt a tingle all the way down her spine. She smiled and bit her lip. "You do not. That is the point." He eased back a little, to capture her eyes and continued, "It's a secret. Everything is a secret. There is dancing and drinking and maybe a little flirting," he grinned at her and Marian grinned back, "and you cannot tell anyone apart."

"Do they ever take the masks off?" Hawke breathed, wanting nothing more in that instant than to attend a Val Royeaux Masquerade Ball.

"Non, the adventurous ladies have trysts in secret like that, making love with a stranger in a masque. It could be your husband or your worst enemy and you would never know. There is a thrill in it, yes?"

Hawke sipped the wine, her eyes glittering with excitement. Gascard watched her very closely. "And you have indulged in such _adventures_?"

"Oui," he nodded, "but with none such as you." he traced the line of her cheek with a long finger and lifted her chin and Marian felt she would melt. "You are more luminous tonight than that chandelier and more beautiful. Are you an adventurous lady, ma jolie?"

His lips came down on hers and her mouth parted of its own accord. His hands slid upon her, and travelled everywhere and she shuddered. The wine goblet slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. She broke free to reach for it in the same instant he did and their heads knocked together. Gascard was a fount of apology, kissing her forehead and pulling the shattered glass from her fingers and in the confusion, she felt a sharp sting and a crimson ribbon of blood blossomed between her thumb and first finger. Instantly, she felt the stirring of power as magic thrummed potently and she clamped down on it hard, there were templars everywhere and Meredith was said to sniff out magic better than a spindleweed hound. Then Gascard was kissing her fingers and sucking on the smarting wound and she drowned in the sensations he pulled from her. The cut was soon forgotten and his mouth was on hers again. She could taste the blood and wine and the particular taste that was just him.

His fingers were threading through her hair in one moment and holding her face in another as he lathered her neck and the top of her breasts with a trail of wet kisses. "Stop, stop, slow down." She struggled to clear her head and sit up straight but he was ardent and she moaned as her resistance slipped yet again. He pressed his mouth into hers.

"Non, ma belle- I must have you- here, now."

He shifted on top of her, and brushed her cheek with his thumb, leaving a smear of blood across her skin and she erupted with acute, piercing need. She felt herself fade, floating on a cloud of heightened feelings, euphoric with pleasure. Whether it was the wine or the conversation or the memory of him taking her blood, every inhibition was thrust aside by that aching _want_. In one corner of her mind there was a Marian, standing with her hands on her hips yelling at her to stop, to think, to consider that this man was a stranger and every woman he had been with had ended up dead, but her voice faded away until she was nothing but a niggling buzz at the back of her head, stuffed tightly into that space from where her will resisted fouler magics.

The hooks at the back of her bodice popped and air rushed into her lungs, giving her a second brief moment of clarity and she began to shake her head, struggling to right herself despite the wonderful things his fingertips were doing with the access given to her nipples.

"You are such a fighter, yes?" Gascard chuckled into her ear and she shivered, "but now you will stop." Just like that, all the resistance spilled out of her.

It was a frantic, urgent merger and she clawed at his clothes, desperate to feel the slick, hot press of his bare skin against hers. His mouth devoured hers, and trailed down her throat. He pressed his face in the swell of her bosom, pushing the stiff basque out of the way to give himself more of her flushed warm flesh to relish. He hitched her thigh over his hip, stroking her leg with long, feathery brushes of his fingers while he worked her out of her underthings and then pierced her with one swift motion, a powerful thrust that battered past every cobweb of doubt. She slipped her arms underneath his shirt, clutching his shoulders as he rode her and she rode the waves of pleasure that shuddered through her.

They came together, and fell apart, panting and heaving, slick and heated. Gascard raised himself as his eyes drank her in, a satisfied smirk playing on his face. Marian percolated, drawing long gasping breaths, her mind completely fragmented by the suddenness of the whole undertaking.

"Your family portrait of Lord Amell was moved up here-"

Suddenly, there were voices in the room and before she could even swivel her head around to see, a loud feminine gasp, horrifyingly familiar rent the air.

"Marian!" Leandra stood shaking, her hands clasped to her mouth. Her eyes wide as saucers. A terrible red flush creeping up her face. Standing beside her, their faces in various and alternating pictures of shock and horror were Seneschal Bran, Sebastian and Flora Harimann.

Gascard disentangled himself gracefully while Hawke scrambled to spare everyone the view of her naked flesh.

Seneschal Bran remained paused in mid sentence, his hand raised to make a point. Flora's mouth hung open and Sebastian was slack-jawed, his face a tangle of too many emotions for her to read.

"Marian! Andraste's mercy, what's going on here?" Leandra's voice broke as she shrieked.

Marian prayed fervently for the ground to part suddenly and swallow her whole.

"Well, I could wager a decent guess at that." Seneschal Bran looked like feast day had come early.

"Bon soir, Mademoiselle, Seneschal." Gascard DuPuis stated nonchalantly and having righted himself in the meantime, slipped past the others and duly vanished down the corridor.

Leandra's face crumpled and she dissolved into powerful heaving sobs as if her heart had been torn, shattered, trampled upon by a bronto. Hawke started to say something, but thought better of it. She met Sebastian's eyes and looked away.

"How could you?" Leandra wailed amidst sobs, Hawke winced.

Sebastian was spurred into action. He wrapped an arm around the shaking older woman and drew her away. "Come on, Lady Amell. I'll take you home now." Flora followed them out, casting a last glance at Hawke.

And then it was just Bran and her and he turned his nose up in the air and grinned triumphantly, turning on his heel. "Well, you know what they say, you can take the Hawke out of Lowtown, but you can't take the Lowtown out of Hawke. I do hope you can see yourself out without further embarrassment."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Would love to know what you thought!  
><strong>


	19. 16 Thin Red Line

**Author's Note:**_**  
><strong>_

I'm eternally grateful to my accomplice and beta **strangegibbon** - a NATO truckload of rifle lubricant would be insufficient to express my gratitude. Many thanks to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites and a special thanks to each and everyone who commented. Your feedback means a lot!

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>16. Thin Red Line<br>**_

Guardsman Donnic Hendyr was a man of diligence, honour and probity. As a constable of the Kirkwall City Guard, the epithet attached to his name was not an empty, redundant noun commensurate with his means of income but a mark of the covenant between him and the principality. It was a symbol of his solemn vow to protect and serve and to uphold the law with fairness and impartiality. To him morality and duty were fundamental obligations that arose out of the Social Contract man entered into with fellow man and the marriage of these values formed the core of his personal philosophy

In Aveline Vallen's high moral rectitude and unfailing integrity, he had found a Captain he was proud to serve and in the stoic dignity of her character, a woman he could love. Her principled determination inspired his passion more strongly than superficial and transient marks of beauty valued by other men and the courage that flared in her heart was more captivating than the most perfectly proportioned figure. Youth, beauty, elegance and grace were mere decoration; Donnic was a man who preferred his beer hearty, his boots sturdy, his sword sharp and his armour strong and in a woman he sought dependability and steadfastness.

Aveline was such a woman and most days, when he rose before the first cockcrow and took his morning exercise, he thanked whatever forces in the universe had brought them together. But very rarely, something transpired and Donnic found himself acknowledging that just as every rose bore its thorns, so too did the best of women. Aveline was clean and tidy and though her cooking did not rival her shield play, he had lately begun to look forward to the weekends when he might wake up in her house to the aroma of sizzling bacon.

As he rounded the curb at the intersection of Chantry and Red Lantern and recognised the figure perched on the bench under the town square arbor, he wondered not for the first time, how Aveline, being such an unperjured paragon had acquired a burden of friends so eclectic and turpitudinous.

He leaned forward, hands on thighs and filled his lungs with air to even out his breathing, and recited to himself all the advantages of walking on but Aveline's loyalty was as exacting as it was unflinching and he owed her no less than what she would do for him. So, despite all his misgivings, he approached the bedraggled woman.

It was hard for Donnic not to draw a comparison between Aveline and every other woman and Hawke was supposed to be something of a great beauty yet he had never been able to see the appeal. Aveline's soft blue eyes reflected her moods and were warm when she was happy, fiery when she was impassioned and icy when she was grim. Marian's gaze was calculating and unfathomable; someone else might have been drawn into the mystery but to him, it was fraught with capriciousness. Aveline's skin was tanned and freckled by hard days of toiling along the Wounded Coast whereas Hawke's snowy perfection was a layer of make-up and rouge. There was not enough musculature on her frame, her shoulders were too narrow and he had never seen her dressed practically. He loved Aveline's appearance because it was a tapestry of all the things he admired about her upholstered over a strength of character that shone from underneath - it was a beauty that was meaningful. Hawke was a painting - an artful study of precise brushstrokes and carefully blended colours with the sole purpose of being attractive, too deliberate to be real.

At present, however, she was more akin to a painting in a state of ruin. In the pre-dawn twilight, he could tell she wore the same ridiculously flamboyant gown from the Ball, all the fancy trimmings ripped and ragged from being dragged across Hightown and grimy from the slight drizzle earlier. Tufts of hair had escaped the coiffure and hung about her face which was streaked with with make-up runoff and dirt. There were goose pimples all over her exposed neck and shoulders from the early morning chill. A bottle of cheap spirit lay empty on the bench and she was hard at work, smoothing out a piece of paper in her lap. There was a crust of filth under her fingernails and her manicure was chipped.

"Hawke," he said as he approached, observing the clumsy motions of her hand that gave away her complete drunkenness. "What are you doing out here? It's 5 in the AM."

She looked up with a start and smiled lazily as she recognised him. "Donnic! Do you want some of this-" she raised the clear glass liquor bottle of unknown label, "Oh sorry, it's all gone now."

Donnic glanced around the deserted square. "Where did you get this?"

"I stole it." She admitted, giggling.

Donnic was annoyed. He did not want to get involved in any of her delinquencies. Half the time he spent in the company of her, that Isabela and the dwarf he ended up feeling disloyal to his badge.

"And what are you doing? What's going on here?" He looked at her fumbling hands as she drew out something and his eyes widened. "Maker's breath! Is that Spindleweed? Do you want me to have to arrest you?"

She turned a sharp blue gaze upon him that may have been withering in other circumstances. "I'm rolling a joint."

"No!" He snatched at the tight spherical wad, "Give it to me, I'm confiscating it."

"No." she yanked her hands away from him and glared.

"What do you mean, 'No'? I'm confiscating it and you are going to walk inside your home now, Serah." He grabbed her hands to pry the contraband away.

"_No_!" Magic ripped through the air and threw him back stumbling, "I said no! Don't touch me, don't... lay one finger on me... I said _no_!"

There was a wild fury simmering in her eyes that was alarming and unexpected. He eased forward slowly, remembering his training and channeling his experience. "All right, Serah. Calm down. I'm just going to sit here on this bench, is that all right? Let's just talk about it. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

She shrugged elegantly and returned to mixing the weed in with tobacco and rolling it up in the paper, tonguing from time to time to ensure the narrow cylinder was packed firm. She studied it in distaste."I still can't get it rolled as tight as Isabela or Varric."

Smoothing it as best she could, she took one end between her lips and stuck the other between her loosely joined palms. There was a flash of light, but nothing happened and she grunted in dissatisfaction. A second flash followed and then a third, and finally on the fourth attempt the roll flared. Hawke shook her hands to put out the magical flame and leaned back, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. She took a long drag and held it in.

"You shouldn't do that. You're drunk, that will go straight to your head, you won't remember a thing."

She didn't say anything at first exhaling a wisp of smoke that curled into the night air and then, "Good."

Donnic scratched his head, wondering when the next patrol would pass. It wouldn't do to have them take her in for delinquency and loitering while he sat around doing nothing. He needed to get her inside the house. "How long have you been out here?"

"Since I left the Ball in disgrace," she said wryly, one eye on his face, watching for a reaction.

It made him uncomfortable to be reminded of that fiasco. Between Leandra's tearful exit with Sebastian Vael, Flora Harimann's horrified retelling and Seneschal Bran's exulting report, the gossip had travelled through the gathering at the speed of sound and everyone knew the story. He felt more than a little disgusted. Aveline would never be so debauched. He did not understand why someone raised by a woman as decent as goodwife Hawke could act so improperly. He shifted his position, trying to keep his face straight so his features did not convey his disapproval too strongly. He didn't know what to say.

"Oh, go on - speak your mind. All that delicious, simmering judgement pouring off your skin - I can hardly wait to hear it."

He glared at her sharply. "Putting your mother through that, it wasn't worth a little moment of fun, when now you can't even bring yourself to face her. So why do it, Serah?"

"Oh, you know me. What's a party without a scandal?" Hawke curled her mouth into a smirk and continued to smoke. "You know, the wilders believe in a type of cosmic tit for tat - they say that whatever you do, comes back to haunt you. Back in Lothering, there used to be a sister - Beatrice, I think her name was. Well, one day, the Revered Mother caught Sister Betty rolling in the hay with a Chasind farmer and there was a whole lot of hoopla about it but she cried coercion and got away clean as a whistle and the poor Chasind boy lost his manhood to the butcher's block. I knew she had lied. I'd often seen her with him at the lake. That day just happened to be unlucky and she was caught. But I said nothing. I did nothing."

Donnic shook his head, angry at the injustice. Then a horrible thought crossed his mind, "You weren't considering anything like that, you can't hope to restore your honour with such a devious trick."

"Of course not. I'm no Chantry sister for one thing, who would believe me?"

The sickly sweet scent of burning spindleweed hung around them and Donnic was disgusted by it. He could almost feel its unwholesomeness coating his skin, seeping into his pores. He was tempted to leave. He glanced at her in irritation and found her inspecting her hand. There was a long, angry gash along the side of her palm, a thin red line stretching from the base of the thumb to the middle of the first finger. It wasn't bleeding but looked new and he winced, staring at it.

"How did you get that?"

"Broken glass," she teased it open until it oozed a tiny sliver of blood. "An accident. I'm sure he didn't mean to cut my hand open."

As a guardsman, Donnic was conditioned to assume the worst, "Did he hurt you, Hawke?"

Marian drew in a last puff, ground the stub into the bench to put it out and rose, gathering her tatty gown and trail in her arms. "Gascard DuPuis, the perfect gentleman? Did you not see him with me all evening? Everyone else did. He was most gallant." She turned around to walk home, leaving him on the bench with his thoughts. "Goodnight, Donnic."

"Hawke." He called out after her, trying to absorb it all as he watched her weave unsteadily towards her house and that niggling frustration that is the bane of every man dedicated to the life of solving crime took hold of him- the prickling sense of glaring helplessly at the spread of evidence and knowing the truth lurked mockingly just beyond perception. He was missing something, he knew it. "Hawke." He stood and chased after her, catching up just before she disappeared inside. "Did you want to report something?"

She spoke with a heavy slur, the bevy of intoxicants in her system taking rapid effect, "Without proof, Guardsman Donnic? Who will believe me?" She pulled herself free of his grasp. "Forget this conversation, I know I will."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Drop a line, make my day!**


	20. 17 Precious and Fragile

**Author's Note**

Sorry about the long break! I was temporarily out of touch with civilisation for a couple of weeks! Many thanks to my beta and BFF, strangegibbon who keeps cattleprodding me towards better writing. I owe you so much! A very special thanks to everyone who reviewed and pm'ed earlier chapters and/or added this story to their alerts and favourites. It makes my day everytime an alert pops up in my inbox!

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot may on occasion trespass through M.

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to Bioware.

* * *

><p><em><strong>17. Precious and Fragile<strong>_

"Oh! Thank goodness you're here!" Merrill confronted her as soon as she entered, charged up and well on her way to wearing a hole in the foyer rug.

Hawke closed the door and leaned against it, stifling a yawn as her gaze settled on the frantic, delicate face. She was bone tired and sore and the visit was ill-timed and unannounced but still it was nice to see someone who wasn't cringing at the sight of her. She gave Merrill a weak smile.

"I thought you went to the Hanged Man. And I almost went there to look for you first, but then I thought you might have gone to your uncle instead...and I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Hawke took a step and the whole room swayed perilously. She clutched the console table next to the wall to steady herself and glanced fondly at Merrill despite having to fight off a sudden bout of nausea. "I don't mind, you're adorable when you're flustered."

Merrill became more agitated and Hawke couldn't keep up with her pacing as well as fight off waxing and waning nausea. She stared resolutely at the floor and the motif in the carpet glared right back, pulsating in a way rugs ought not to. She groaned. Merrill snapped out of her frantic ambulation and clutched her hand, bony fingers digging tightly into skin and she bit back a gasp that Merrill was too preoccupied to notice, emotions jettisoning across her face.

"I could never have faced the Keeper myself," she said finally, tilting up her head to train her intense olive gaze upon Marian's face. "-and I never imagined a human would help me restore Dalish history. No one ever understood, not the Keeper, not my clan, just you."

"I'm sensitive, beautiful and supportive. What more could you possibly want?" Marian jested, twisting around to look at herself in the mirror. An appalling sight met her eyes and she sighed in dismay, wiping the worst of the grime and blood smears away with the back of her hand.

"Nothing." Merrill said a little wistfully, hovering behind her and when Hawke glanced at her with a chuckle, she backpedaled quickly, "Oh, not that I'm saying I want you," and then she shook her head vigorously, splotches of pink blooming on her cheeks, "-I'll just stop talking, shall I?"

"I love you too, Merrill but I need a hot bath and coffee and you probably need to sit by the fire for a trifle. I'll ring for Orana, she should be getting up anyway - what do you say?"

"You're the first real friend I've ever had - mas sarennas, Llethallin," she admitted and became so overcome then, fidgeting restlessly and wringing her hands, that Hawke paused to consider her with some concern. It was unusual behaviour even for Merrill who stood apart as a rule and she wished her head were clearer so she could make better sense of it.

"Come with me, Merrill." She pulled her along through the silent, empty house, ushering her into one of the large wingback chairs next to the fire in the main hall. "Sit here, I'll only be a minute."

She picked her way to the kitchens, dragging the wilted flounces of her once magnificent gown behind her and yanked the servant quarter bell, hearing it chime faintly somewhere beyond the courtyard. It was just past dawn and while she waited for someone to show up, she watched the darkness withdraw, promising herself no more nights as late as the last two.

A few minutes later, Orana's slight figure came hurrying out of the servant quarters and crossed the twilit courtyard. Hawke leaned against the centre island, arms crossed and eyes closed to give her vision a moment of rest and spoke up as soon as the maid entered.

"Did you see Mother get in last night?"

"Good morning, Mistress. Are you- yes, Lady Amell came home with, with... His Highness, Lord, Ser-," Orana became completely tangled up in all the epithets Leandra had taught her to use for their various callers and Hawke shook her head.

"Sebastian, I get it. Is she asleep now?"

Orana nodded, "She went to bed directly, Mistress. You look tired, may I draw you a bath?"

"Yes, and Merrill's here - get us something to drink and then attend to me."

"At once, Mistress. Should I get you a wrap?"

Hawke nodded with a grunt and Orana hastened away. For a minute longer, she stood gathering her thoughts and returned to the hall just as Orana flew down the staircase with one of her house robes. She pulled it over her shoulders before sinking into the armchair in front of Merrill, putting up her feet and leaning her head against the back of the chair.

"I was just-" Merrill started off once again, "Am I crazy?"

"Yes," Hawke said with a wry quirk of her mouth and Merrill despaired. "But in a good way," she added reassuringly making the girl blush and giggle yet less than a moment later, her expression was convoluted again.

"I thought the arulin'holm would fix everything," It came out a little strangled. "That the mirror would work and everything would be right again-"

Hawke frowned. "Then it didn't work?"

Merrill shook her head and continued unhappily, "I keep dreaming of Pol's face. Everyone I care about thinks I'm a monster."

It took Marian a minute to recall who Pol was, the hurried trip to Sundermount though but a day old was already lapsing into distant memory, so much had happened in the twenty four hours since. Pol had died. Pol, who had been Merrill's clanmate. She looked at Merrill. Her large, guileless eyes glimmering in the firelight, full of wonder and self-doubt and a chill trickled down her spine. Pol had rushed into the jaws of a Varterral and he had been running from her. Did Merrill seem as sweet and artless to him as she appeared to her, sitting in the over sized chair or did he see some forever altered version because of her blood magic? She felt the slice in her hand throb and Gascard DuPuis' handsome, chiseled face floated before her eyes. Was it the face of a monster? Or was she just another Pol, lashing out over a suspicion to allay her own guilt? She wrapped the housecoat tighter about herself and put on a warm, friendly smile.

"It's hard to imagine someone more lovable than you." It wasn't precisely a lie but in the spaces between those words many truths could stay hidden.

Tears glinted in Merrill's eyes and she turned her gaze to the fire to hide them but not before Hawke caught a glimpse of what had flashed briefly in them.

"That's so untrue, I - " She whispered, her voice wavering under the burden of hope and longing, furtive and fearful. Hawke found herself surprised to have missed the signs before. How long had Merrill looked at her thus?

Orana interrupted with a tray of spiced, mulled wine that Merrill snatched at eagerly. Hawke waved it away, she could appreciate Merrill's need for some false courage but she needed no more of it.

"-you've been so good to me. Someday, I'll make this up to you, Llethalin." There was that word again.

"Your bath is ready, Mistress." Orana informed and Hawke nodded, standing up.

"I need that bath terribly. You can wait here or sit by me upstairs - whatever you wish."

"Oh, I think I'll be fine here for now - maybe later? I have this wine and I should sit, I think. My legs are so tired."

Hawke nodded again and dragged herself to her room.

It was perfect inside, the fire roared in the hearth and the covers were pulled back from her bed, the pillows fluffed invitingly. Shafts of pale light sifted in through the windows as a golden dawn broke slowly over a grey skyline. The day would be warm, touched by the first heat of summer. Hawke stood admiring the vista while Orana undressed her in her quiet, unobtrusive manner. Her mind chugged slowly, leaden with alcohol and spindleweed and Hawke was surprised by the utter listlessness that had her in a firm grip. She should have been afraid perhaps, ashamed definitely and horrified. Sorting through her feelings she found each one of those intact but they were slumbering under the ice-cold blanket that had numbed her.

There was a comfort in watching Orana work, in the familiarity of her room, in things that were predictable and familiar. She sank into the bathtub when it was ready and reclined, watching the flames dance in the fireplace while her hair was lathered and rinsed. She soaped and sponged the rest of her body, running through the motions from habit as if nothing had happened and shrugged when Orana gasped at the discovery of the wound on her hand, watching as it was dressed and bound with the same clinical ennui.

She sat at her dressing table and brushed her fingers over pots of make-up and fancy crystal decanters of perfume, twisting open a pot of firming lotion and applying it liberally around her eyes and mouth. She moisturised her hands and feet. This was her altar and these were her rituals and she found more comfort in them than in kneeling in prayer before Andraste.

Finally she sent for Merrill who entered, wide eyed and awed and sank into one of the bedroom chairs, ill at ease in its ample, soft embrace. Neither her nor Fenris were ever completely relaxed in her house, it occurred to her suddenly. Sifting through her memories there was a time when Merrill was more at home, when they both lived in different parts of Lowtown and the gap between their homes did not stretch as wide. But Fenris, he never let his guard down, perhaps not even in his own home.

"How was the wine?" she asked, taking the other seat by the fire.

"It was good, heavy but good. My head feels a little light - it isn't as sour as the stuff at the Hanged Man,which is _really_ sour - is this different?"

"It is." Hawke ran a brush slowly through her hair, inspecting for split-ends. It was another ritual. She wanted to cling to routine things, as if nothing had changed.

Merrill watched her, mesmerised by the motion of her hand. "After you left, I couldn't stop thinking about Pol, and the mirror and everything that's happened. I wonder if... I've made a mistake, leaving the Dalish."

Hawke paused and met her eyes. "You're just feeling homesick, don't second guess yourself."

Merrill nodded, swallowed thickly and continued. "I suppose if hadn't left I would never have met you." The wine had gone quite a ways in calming her wrought nerves but suddenly they were stretched again and she could feel the tension vibrating off her. Hawke resisted the urge to remind her that it was not so much an intersection of destinies but Marethari who had foisted Merrill onto her. She rose with a sigh and moved to the decanter in her room; poured out a little and handed it to her. "Here, try this -it's a vintage."

Merrill accepted it gratefully and swallowed it all in one gulp that left her coughing and Marian wincing but she seemed a little more reassured. "'I'm not like you. I wish that I were. You're beautiful and clever and you never make any mistakes, and I...I don't deserve you."

Hawke put down the brush, "I'm not as perfect as you think." She closed her eyes and shook her head."I'm not some sort of goddess." If only she knew the extent of it.

"I'm not so sure about that." She let out a nervous chortle. "People worship you. Some people worship you from afar."

"What are you saying, Merrill?" Hawke leaned back to observe her.

"The Keeper, my whole clan would object if we-," the potent wine had made her flush already, but even so a deeper pink crept up her cheeks and neck, "-not that they could possibly hate me more, I suppose." She looked away, tucking her hands underneath her on the chair.

"Merrill," Hawke raised an eyebrow and the corner of her lip, "are you asking to be with me?"

The elf turned crimson and leapt to her feet, "It's foolish of me to even dream that you might..."

Marian chuckled and turned her around so she could look into her eyes, "You don't have to dream about it."

Then neither of them knew what to say and a pause bloated between them, pregnant with meaning and potential. Marian felt a flicker of elation. It was one thing to be desired, but to be valued and by Merrill who was good and sweet and unsullied just when she felt she could never be clean again. She didn't feel worthy of the admiration, the idolatry filling up those eyes and yet it drew her. If to Merrill this was the fulfillment of a wild fancy, then to her it was a glimpse of redemption and she wanted it, wanted to regress to a simpler time, of hope and dreams and innocence, of lazy summer days and fields of green and gold. She could do this - wanted to do it, for Merrill and for herself, this little thing that could mean so much.

Merrill didn't want to meet her eyes, expecting rejection. It was written all over her face in heartbreaking colour. Marian took her face in her hands. "Merrill," she smiled. "It's all right."

She was surprised when Merrill kissed her first, hesitant and uncertain but impassioned and then again when she pulled her to the bed eagerly. Merrill was inhibited by her inexperience but Marian was not - it was second nature, another ritual, a thing of routine and she knew exactly what was needed and when and she closed her eyes and led from instinct, and in Merrill's amazement and awe, in her little first time discoveries, she felt renewed.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

I'd love to know what you thought, do drop a line!


	21. 18 Broken Things

**Author's Note**

As ever, oodles of thanks to my BFF and relentless laser-eyed, adverb wrangling, purple text murdering beta, **strangegibbon**, who has been the rock of ages. A very special thanks to the folks who've left me comments and reviews. It means so much to hear what you guys think. Thanks also to everyone who followed this story. It's all very humbling! *Squish* to all.

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot, may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>18. Broken Things<strong>_

Sleep washed over consciousness like the high tide creeping upon the Wounded Coast. Marian's mind spun around in the utter emptiness behind closed eyelids, darkness swirling within darkness. It was the alcohol and spindleweed extracting their due, but the immense vertigo felt as if she were plunging into a vortex, pulled ever deeper into its churning belly. She lay still, suspended in that No Man's Land between sleep and wakefulness, longing for the former and dreading the latter whilst they tossed her back and forth between them.

Then, just as it felt that slumber might overwhelm her at last, something yanked her back. Her eyes sprang open, the dazzling sunlight streaming in from the window was searing and the world exploded in a bright, white flash of pain. She moaned, covering her eyes with her hands and fought through the overbright haze of discomfort to make sense of what was happening.

A glimpse of Merrill's face floated into her vision and she tried to dig out a smile but produced only a grimace.

"Hawke?" Merrill asked, adjusting the lay of her head on Marian's shoulder. "Are you awake yet?"

Marian didn't reply, desperate to claw herself back into the embrace of oblivion, but Merrill was determined.

"What happens now?" She rose and peered at her intensely.

Marian braved the glare and squinted at her mutely.

"Hawke, are we … ?" Merrill persisted, eyes murky pools of inquisition. "-what did this mean?"

"It didn't mean anything, Merrill." Hawke murmured incoherently, words tumbling over one another. "It was just one night." The last thing she needed was Merrill waffling on and second guessing herself over this.

"Of course, I'm just being silly... I mean, thinking that..." Merrill faltered and Hawke felt her weight lift off the bed. "I should go." The movement disoriented her completely and Marian sat up, clutching her forehead to stop her head from spinning like a pinwheel. She pushed forward after Merrill but the sudden momentum was too much and it was all she could do to scramble for the chamberpot and clutch it tightly as her gut tried to climb out of her mouth.

When Marian did wake finally, well into the afternoon hours later, she was confronted with two immediate legacies of the night before. The first was a terrific headache that waxed and waned rhythmically to a phantom beat and the second was a very porous recall of events. She recollected the Ball, of course, dancing with Gascard DuPuis and Deaver Bran slighting her during the Grand Cotillion. The memories that followed were riddled with alcohol shaped holes, chief amongst them being most details of the disaster that now demanded management.

Of the events surrounding it, she had a basic understanding that Leandra and Sebastian had found her in a compromising state and predictably, disaster had ensued. The images of her mother's horror, Sebastian's red faced disbelief and Seneschal Bran delighting in schadenfreude were burned into her mind but she couldn't recall how she'd returned home. There were discordant memories of Merrill's haphazard confession followed by several flashes that were both rather graphic and sweet.

Hawke emerged from her bedroom a little unsteadily, hair wet from plunging her head in cold water in the hope that Isabela's remedy was as efficacious as it appeared dubious. Soft murmurs drifted up from the main hall below and though she could not make out the words, the tone of the delivery was definitely her mother's. She stood at the top of the stairs and toyed with the idea of returning to her room, climbing out the window and moving permanently into the Hanged Man rather than face the reckoning below. It was a seductive thought but Hawke shook her head and took a deep breath.

"You need to loop the stitch around, dear-" she heard her mother instruct as she descended the staircase hesitantly.

Leandra was seated in her favourite armchair by the fireside, her basket of needlework resting on one side of it and Orana, embroidery hoop in hand, on the other. "What are you doing, Mother?" Her voice came out a little strangled. Needlepoint was an Amell legacy and though it was Bethany and not her who had been the domestic one, to be passed over in favour of Orana stung sharply.

Leandra flicked her gaze at her and then averted it, turning to point out the error in Orana's needlework. "No, dear. You need to do this again, where's the seam ripper?"

"Yes, Milady," Orana nodded, rifling through the tool basket for the implement.

Marian stood unacknowledged in silence, her heart sinking.

"Did you find it?" Leandra prodded the girl.

"No, Milady. It isn't here."

"I might have left it in my room, go take a look."

As Orana scampered off, Leandra sat up straight and turned her gaze to Marian. Her expression bore the burden of hurt, anger and humiliation stoically, some of the lines looking deeper and still others that were new but it was the scorching contempt that made Marian wither under the level stare. She sank into the opposite chair, folding her hands in her lap and looked down. Leandra spoke after a long pause.

"That elf girl - Merrill - she left before midday, asked me to let you know that she was going home. Was she here overnight?"

Marian nodded. "She came over last night. One of her friends, a clan mate, died at Sundermount and she was extremely upset."

Leandra nodded, pursed her lips and did not press further. Marian couldn't tell if the explanation had satisfied her. It was mostly accurate and could stretch passably over the truth. Feeling braver, she gestured at the circular frame that held Orana's needle stuck through the middle and picked it up, fingering the crude attempt. "You are teaching her your craft?"

"Yes, I won't be here forever. I don't want my skills to die with me. My sweet Bethany is gone. After last night, Carver wants nothing to do with this house and I can't blame him-"

Marian bristled, "I... I know how to do this, I remember- mostly. I just need to brush up-"

"Save it."

Hawke stopped, chastised by the vehemence in the tone. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms and struggled to maintain outwardly calm.

"Have you decided when the wedding will be?" Leandra asked sharply.

"What?" Hawke looked up flabbergasted. "I don't-"

"He did promise to make an honest woman out of you?" Leandra barreled ahead, glaring at Marian's astonished expression, "I hope you had the sense to extract that from him that at least. To think, an_ Amell_ taking some no good, immigrant name nobody even _knows_ is the most we can hope for," she spat distastefully and Marian was too appalled to note the irony. "I had such high hopes. Seneschal Bran's son is your age - there was a match there, Ghyslain de Carrac,- why even, in my heart of hearts, I thought - Sebastian. If you had moved with caution, and with luck, you could have gone to Starkhaven a _Princess_ but now - disgraced -"

She started to cry and a few shuddering sobs escaped her control before she dabbed at her eyes and regained composure. "It should be done quickly, two months or three at most. I had planned a year to do your trousseau when the happy time came, but there is no time now. Maker forbid-" she trailed off, her cheeks colouring, "-you_ take_, and it begin to show-" she became too distraught to continue.

Marian couldn't speak.

"It is my fault." Leandra started again, "I should have been stricter with you. Back in Lothering, Miriam tried to warn me - but with Malcolm's health, and the children - I thought you were _sensible_. There are two types of women, Marian. The ones that gentlemen respect, the ones they honour - these are the ones they marry and give their name - and the ones which they use for _entertainment_. Without your virtue, which do you think you are?"

"I am sorry, Mother-"

"You should be!" Leandra cut her off angrily, "You_ should_ be, you have destroyed this family." She dissolved into tears and Marian felt a reciprocal prickling in her own eyes.

"I am not going to marry Gascard DuPuis," Marian explained once Leandra's sobs seemed to ebb. She felt wretched.

"Don't be foolish! What else are you to do?" She turned on Marian hotly. "He has taken your maidenhood, do you think any any other gentleman will take that charlatan's sloppy seconds? He owes you this. It is his duty. He despoiled you, if he will not do right by you, I will speak to the Viscount."

Marian pinched the bridge of her nose, her cheeks uncharacteristically hot and flushed. Beneath the embarrassment and mortification there was regret and sadness. She knew she had deviated from her mother's moral compass a long time ago and she had done everything to uphold the illusion that the rend between them was non-existent, but the facade could no longer survive and courage seemed to fail her. For so long she had struggled to keep everything that was ugly about her life from her family and now Leandra's pain was her fault and she could nothing to relieve it. No more lies to gloss over with.

She took a deep breath.

"Gascard didn't, Mother."

She stopped. "What are you saying? Do you think I am blind? I saw you with my own eyes. How dare you try to deny it? I will not have it."

"No, I meant- I meant that... he was not my first, Mother."

Leandra gasped. It was low, rattling draw of breath that pulled at Marian's heartstrings and made her feel miniscule and then she started to weep softly, hopelessly, completely shattered. Marian dropped to her knees on the rug and reached to take her hand but she wrenched it away with a strangled cry. Not knowing what else to do she crouched at her feet, wincing as her mother's tears painted deeper lines into her face.

"It was him, wasn't it?" Leandra finally composed herself, clasping a hand over her heart as the last of the sobs made her voice hitch. "That dour elf. I've seen the way you two look at each other."

"Fenris?" Marian raised an eyebrow and almost smirked at that irony. "No."

She gaped in shock, unable to believe there could be anyone else. Her imagination simply failed. "Then who, Marian?"

Pinned under her mother's gaze, Marian could not defend against the chill, bone-deep memory. She shook her head and closing her eyes for a moment, willed her thoughts away from flashes of that long ago time. _Bethany, _she instructed herself, _think of Bethany. So lovely, pure and chaste- think of Bethany. She was safe. Till the end_. _That's all that mattered._ She felt a little better immediately, "A long time ago, Mother - back in Lothering." She stood, eager to get away. "I'm truly sorry about last night. Please excuse me."

In the library, she went straight for the cabinet under the window, yanking it open and scrabbling through its contents in search of the bottle of scotch that had sat at the back. A moment of panic flared when she couldn't find it and then morphed into disappointment as she remembered it had finished after that last confrontation with Leandra. Sinking to the floor, she leaned back into the frustratingly empty cabinet, consumed by the sudden craving, the taste of whisky on her tongue and fingers drumming impatiently. Then abruptly she leapt to her feet, seized by inspiration.

"Bodahn!" she flung open the kitchen door and flew after him. "Bodahn."

"Madam," he looked up from his chores and gave her a respectful nod.

"Do you still have any of that dwarven drink that Varric brought you last time he visited?"

"The malt... distillation, Madam?" He looked at her curiously.

"Yes!" She clapped her hands, "I'd like some of that."

He regarded her with surprise and then responded, "Of course, Madam. Will you be served in the library?"

Hawke nodded, "That would be fine," and returned there to wait.

When Bodahn entered not long after, Marian had a moment of remorse though she reached for the tumbler immediately and ordered him to set the bottle down on the table beside her.

"I'll ask Varric to get you some more tomorrow," she promised.

"No, no, Messere, after all you have done for me and my boy, besides it's very harsh and I doubt you would like it or could drink it all-," Bodahn trailed off in surprise as she emptied the tumbler in one swig and reached for a refill. After a pause to recover, he cleared his throat and spoke, eager to gloss over the awkwardness. "A note arrived from Guard Captain Aveline earlier with special instructions to make sure you read it as soon as you were awake."

"Oh?" she emptied the second tumbler, shaking her head as the liquid burned down her throat. It was especially potent.

Bodahn handed her the parchment bearing Aveline's seal. She took it, gesturing at him to fill her glass yet again while she tore it open and scanned the letter.

"Wants to see me right away," she lifted the third shot. "When was this received?"

"At ten in the morning, Messere." Bodahn informed her, unnerved by the sight of her emptying yet another serving.

"I see. Thank you, Bodahn." She finally set the glass away and rose a little unsteadily. "I should go and see her then, I suppose."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**I would love to know what you think, drop me a line!**


	22. 19 Much Ado about Nothing

**Author's Note**

Abject apologies for taking extra long! Hearts and flowers to my wonderful beta and friend, **strangegibbon** and much, much angel pr0n to her. To everyone who's been following, my unending gratitude and a very special thanks to all those who reviewed. You make my day!

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>19. Much Ado About Nothing<strong>_

A frosty reception greeted Hawke when she arrived at the Viscount's Keep. It was late in the afternoon and all offices including the Secretariat were just about to close business for the day. The Main Hall, divested of its ceremonial embellishments, was once again stark and forbidding and only a few people lingered within. There was Comte de Launcet lounging in the reception area, browsing a periodical over tea. For a moment their eyes met and just as Marian prepared to send a nod and smile his way his face twisted into an indignant scowl and he quickly drew up the paper to ward her off. Startled by the hostility, Hawke forged on hastily and found much the same sentiment prevailing everywhere; even the duty constable in front of Aveline's office sniffed at her in contempt.

Steeling herself for the worst, she pushed through the thick oak door and entered the office.

Donnic was sat in one of the visitor chairs while Aveline crouched behind the large writing table, a frown etched deep into her brow. There was palpable tension in the air and it made Hawke feel a little like an interloper.

"Am I interrupting something?" She opened with faux cheeriness, "You look like a pair of doting … pitbulls."

Donnic acknowledged her arrival with a nod and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Aveline pursed her lips grimly leaving Hawke to make an attempt breaking the ice with nothing but her best smile. Predictably, it did precious little to precipitate a thaw. She seated herself in the remaining chair and drew a bracing breath.

"So," she began, "here I am. It would be nice of you to drop in once in a while or invite me for tea instead of issuing a sub poena every time you want to see me."

Aveline glared at her.

"I'll have coffee, thank you for asking and I wouldn't say no to biscuits."

"Damn it, Hawke!" Aveline sprang out of her chair and threw up her hands. "I should throw you in the brig for a week!"

"Aveline, please." Donnic interjected.

Hawke stole a glance at him, he looked stricken - and scratched her forehead nervously. Was Aveline being serious? "You don't want me in there," she let out a soft laugh, "why, it'll be carnival day for your inmates all over again! Don't you remember Isabela in the lock-up?"

The Captain of the Guard snarled out such a savage curse that it made Marian cringe and Donnic redden. She shoved away and paced to and fro to compose herself whilst an ominous semi-silence stretched in the room.

"How's your hand?" ventured Donnic in a meek voice and Hawke turned her head to look at him. He leaned forward and pointed at her hands resting on her knees.

"My hand?" Marian arched her eyebrows as he reached forward and turned over her palm. There was a raw incision about two inches long between her thumb and forefinger that she had no recollection of acquiring. "Oh, how nasty! Did that happen last night?"

"You don't remember anything? When we spoke..." His expression was a mix of disgust, pity and sadness and it reminded Hawke of the one Aveline wore when she had been called in to evict squatting refugees. She rolled her eyes.

"I was in my cups!" She retorted. "It's a common side effect of having fun. You would know if you two ever let yourselves have a little now and then."

"Fun!" Aveline stormed, rounding on Hawke and grabbing the arms of her chair. "Your _fun_ broke Leandra's heart. Your fun will cost me a _triple_ murder investigation!"

Fragmented images of Gascard DuPuis and an alcove flashed through Marian's mind and under the flash of embarrassment, a curious uneasiness uncoiled in the pit of her stomach. She squeezed her hand, wincing at the sharp pain and tried to remember. There was something important about it, lurking just beyond the edge of her grasp. It was an effort to hold onto the air of complacent good humour she had armoured herself with.

"Oh, is this why you skipped offering tea?" she countered, leaning back in the chair and meeting Aveline's steely glare.

Meanwhile Donnic pressed ahead with dogged determination heedless of the other line of inquiry. "What happened last night, Hawke?"

"Not now, Donnic, please!" Aveline snapped, "I don't care how she cut her finger!" She turned on Hawke, blue eyes blazing. "You've compromised the whole investigation!"

Hawke threw him a sympathetic look, "Oh, Aveline, lighten up." She patted Aveline's cheek. "I'll take Fenris and pay him a visit tomorrow."

"No! No! I can't let you continue with it." Aveline slapped away her hand, bristling with fury. "You have a conflict of interest now, damn it! How could you do this to me, Hawke? I relied on you!"

"Aveline-" Donnic implored but was ignored.

Hawke sighed for dramatic effect, "Aveline, I barely recall what he looks like. I don't have a bias."

There was a flicker of uncertainty in the towering woman's eyes but she ground her teeth stubbornly, "I can't allow it, Hawke." Aveline backed off and leaned against her table, rubbing her forehead. "Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done. It won't fly with the brass."

"Of course it will," Hawke insisted. "You appointed me Investigator weeks ago. I was just ... undercover last night! I seduced him, angling for information - make something up," she waved her hand.

"But what really happened Hawke? If you have something to report, we will listen." Donnic edged into the conversation. "When I saw you afterwards, you were-" He reminded Hawke very much of a bloodhound just then, single minded in pursuit. She scowled.

"-drunk! My memory is all foggy. The truth is what Aveline puts down on her report. Spin it however you like."

He stared at her dubiously, "I am concerned. You were rambling afterwards, you said something very different-"

"Donnic, let it go." Aveline returned to her chair. "All right, Hawke. We'll do it your way, but get it done and quickly. No more complications."

Hawke left the office, glad that the meeting concluded less disastrously than it could have done. She walked out of the city guard wing and was on her way down the stairs towards the exit when she found herself crossing paths with Seneschal Bran and Saemus Dumar on their way up.

"Serah Hawke," said Saemus brightly. Hawke hesitated - given the cold reception everywhere else his amiability was suspicious.

"Good evening Saemus," she replied with matching brio.

"You? Here? What an unexpected surprise," Bran chortled delightedly, "but then again, we have been seeing quite a lot of you lately, haven't we?" Smugness rolled off him in waves. "How's your dear mother? I was so sorry to see her leave early."

Hawke glared at him, too enraged to speak. She could feel magic stir and lick around her and revelled in the power, unfurling it, letting it wrap unbeknownst around the hateful man. A flick of her thoughts could send him hurtling down the stairs or if she was more brutishly inclined slam him into the ground so forcefully his legs would snap - right here at her feet.

The few moments that it cost to indulge in these fancies precluded her from a quick reply and Saemus spoke first. "That's enough, Seneschal."

Bran dropped his grin and glowered. Hawke gave Saemus a small, grateful smile, "A pleasure to meet you as always, Saemus, but I am in a hurry - if you will excuse me, please."

"Of course, Serah." He moved to give her space. "I hope to see you again very soon."

"That would be lovely," Marian smiled back, equal parts surprised and grateful for his warmth as she hurriedly descended the rest of the way and made her exit, turning the short conversation over in her head and picking it apart. If she had made a better impression upon Kirkwall's crown prince than previously assumed, she wondered if perhaps there was not a sliver of open window where it seemed all doors had become firmly shut.

Back at the mansion, she was just in time to see a stagecoach barrelling away from her house behind a team of frothing horses. It bore no crest that Hawke could make out in the fallen darkness and in a burst of wild fancy her first thought was that it was bearing Leandra away for good. She froze in the middle of the street, cloying dismay winding a cold grip around her until she observed it carried no luggage and reasoned further that Leandra would never leave the house. Not a second time. That whimsy of her nature to which Hawke owed her existence had long since been lost to experience. Leandra had mellowed out.

It was hard to imagine that under the first spell of love her mother had been quick to shed those same social niceties which she now so strongly advocated. Often Hawke wondered how long it had taken her mother to realise the error of her choices. She had been a loyal and dutiful wife to Malcolm as befitted her upbringing until the end, and perhaps had loved him too in her own way. But Hawke could read her regrets in the tapestry of lines on her face and in the calluses on her hands and she had made no secret that hers was not the life she would choose for her daughters. For Leandra, being restored to the Amell name and heritage was not only a homecoming, it was a final chance at setting right the mistakes of her youth and for this reason alone Marian was confident that her mother had not left.

Sure enough, she found her inside, halfway up the stairs. She turned around to glance at Hawke with her lips pressed in a line visibly resisting the urge to ask where she had been. Instead an awkward silence hung between them and Hawke inhaled deeply, unfastening her scarf and unwrapping it from around her head.

"I went to meet Aveline at the Keep and ran into Saemus and Seneschal Bran, they asked after you," said Hawke, leaning on the newel post and looking up at her mother. When Leandra did not respond, she continued. "There was a carriage just outside the gate, was someone visiting?"

Leandra's reply was so late in coming that Hawke had nearly abandoned hope that it would come at all. "Yes," she said curtly, "a gentleman caller, and before that, Sebastian. He came to say goodbye. He's leaving Kirkwall."

Hawke blinked at the number of shocking disclosures in that one sentence. The second appeared to be more pressing and it was this she addressed first. "Leaving Kirkwall? What do you mean?"

"He left a letter for you. It's on the table."

"What did he say?" Hawke went on in disbelief.

"He came to see how I was doing and said that he had decided to cut short his stay in Kirkwall and renew focus both on his family's murder and the usurper in Starkhaven. He doesn't know when or if he will ever return."

"Never return? He doesn't mean that, surely? The Chantry's here, does he not plan to rejoin the Order?"

"He admitted that he had grown distracted and felt that recent events were a sign from the Maker to remind him of his priorities." Leandra's tone that made it abundantly clear that she held Marian responsible for this sudden change of heart.

Sebastian was gone. Hawke grappled with that prospect, upset and unhappy at the implications and her role in this unfortunate development. She realised suddenly that somewhere along their brief association and maternally enforced courtship (if her mother's fanciful idea of setting her up with a Chantry Brother still technically avowed could be referred to as such) she had formed some attachment. Their last conversation and the hurt on his face the last time she had seen him niggled uncomfortably.

And if all of that was insufficiently dense to absorb at once, there was still more. "You mentioned a caller? For me?"

Leandra bristled and sniffed at her, "For me. I am not yet past my bloom. I had you all very young," she insisted. "I met a gentleman last night, very polite and amiable. A widower. He came to call upon me."

Marian looked up at her and despite the gulf between them, she could not resist smiling broadly. "How lovely, Mother. I'm very happy for you."

"Well, unless there is anything else I'm going to my room to read." She turned around and climbed a few more steps before pausing once again. "Oh, and that dreadful woman is here. I told Bodahn she could wait in the courtyard."

Hawke perked up at once, feeling much of her moroseness evaporate. She dashed off at once.

Isabela was not in the courtyard, of course, but had made herself comfortable in the master bedroom.

"There you are!" Marian exclaimed as soon as their eyes met.

"I'm hardly away three nights and you have the town in an uproar - why do I always miss the fun?" Isabela stood with her hands on her waist, one hip jutting out.

Hawke bounded across the room, mouth set in a happy grin and embraced her tightly, kissing her cheek as Isabela slid her arms around her waist and they stood flush against one other. There was no need for words, just the comfort of having the weight of her worries lift with each swing of the pendulum.

Finally, after a length of time that felt shorter than it was, Isabela broke the silence. "I think I need a bath." She held Hawke out at an arm's length. 'Do you think I need a bath?"

Hawke grinned again and made a great show of taking in Isabela's condition in its entirety. There were splotches of unknown heritage and briny stains on the leather that encased her legs. Under the sweat-stained bandana, her hair was frizzled and grimy, her face sun-burnt and salt-scoured. She smelled of the sea, ship grease, cheap ale and adventure. "Oh yes. Yes, you do," she nodded vigorously.

Not much later, they were both settled in the bath tub with a tumbler each of the moonshine Varric had procured. Marian lathered her best friend's hair and teased out the knots, a pair of scissors handy for the ones that proved too troublesome while she related the long and short of the disaster.

"And Mother thought Fenris was my dastardly ravisher."

Isabela cackled loudly. "I wonder who his first was," she mused and Hawke smiled inwardly. "I would bet my coin on Danarius. He has an unhealthy obsession with his old master-" she moaned softly as Marian massaged her scalp, "mmm...and I know what I would do if he was my glistening, oiled up slave."

"Isabela!" Hawke giggled, shoving her off with mock horror.

"I'm completely serious - or maybe that Hadriana woman. He was far too eager to shove something hard into her - what was up with that?"

"Oh Maker! Don't ever let him hear you say that!" Hawke settled back against her end of the tub, and ran the tips of her toes along the long length of Isabela's leg. After a lull, she added. "I missed you."

Isabela quaffed the remainder of the liquor and licked her lips, "I stopped by Merrill's on the way over here."

Hawke sobered and sipped from her glass eyeing Isabela neutrally.

"She was going on and on about you - how amazing and beautiful you are. She asked 'how can anyone not love her?' and I told her I'd give her a list of reasons but that would've just confused her." Hawke smiled and said nothing. After a pause, she continued, "I get the feeling that girl's messing in something big and dangerous."

"I hardly think so, it was nothing." Hawke chuckled, swirling the contents of the tumbler. "She spent last night here - was upset about that elf who died and a little sweet on me. I showed her a good time - I hope so, at least. Given how drunk I was, it's a blessing there's nothing I have that needs to rise to the occasion or it may have ended differently."

"She's been mooning over you for a long time. She doesn't do this spur of the moment thing."

Hawke frowned and sipped again, swallowing over a suddenly thickened tongue. "Oh, it was just a first for her, a big one. I'll bet she'll be breaking hearts all over the Alienage before the summer is out."

"And how do you see this thing panning out between you and her?"

"Panning out?" Hawke held out one of the fingers that gripped the glass and wagged it. "There's no 'panning out'."

"So you took her for a tumble, then left her high and dry." A note of accusation slipped into Isabela's voice.

"It was just a fling - wish fulfilment for her. She left before I even woke up," Hawke replied defensively. She was not about to take on the burden of safekeeping Merrill's heart in addition to her person. "When did I ever give the impression I was looking to settle?" First Anders and now Merrill right on the heels of the DuPuis disaster. She just wasn't living right. "She'll get over it. Let it stand as a learning experience, it'll be good for her in the long run."

"I wish you were a man right now, just for a moment, so I could threaten to cut off your balls," Isabela answered with a wry half-smile, leaning back and trailing her fingers along the sudsy edge of the tub.

"Oh, you don't want that! Men are only good for one thing." Hawke replied coyly and pushed herself across the distance that separated them. Her fingers brushed along Isabela's knees, over her thighs and edged higher. She nuzzled her jawline and nipped experimentally at her earlobe.

Isabela caught her hair and pulled her head back a little. "As long as we're all good for something, huh?" Her eyes were sharp and narrowed in contrast to the dark gleam in Marian's whose pale skin was flushed red from the bath and desire both. They kissed. It began slowly, starting out soft and tentative, escalating into playful teasing until finally stoking them both into a breathless near frenzy that left them clinging to each other with want.

It was a kiss that thrilled not because it was new but because it wasn't, borne out of their familiar relationship - old lovers and old friends. It was exhilarating not because of the suspense in the uncertainty of the next moment, but because of the history of a thousand preceding it and because of the trust in the thousand that would follow.

"Don't go running off again anytime soon," Marian urged when they broke apart.

"As a matter of fact, I think I am off again tomorrow, after all." Isabela replied a little thoughtfully. "There's a mercenary contract I have a mind to pursue."

Hawke pouted. "Since when do you do an honest day's labour?'

She gave out a soft laugh, "Oh, it isn't mine. Fenris is injured and he could do without losing out on it. I figure, I do him a favour..." she lifted a shoulder and tilted her head. "It worked for you, no reason it shouldn't work for me."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**I would love to have your feedback!**


	23. 20 Quantum of Grace

**Author's Note**

A heap of thanks the size of Olympus Mons to my friend and beta **strangegibbon **for her constant support and encouragement, without which this story would be much harder to write and near impossible to continue. I am ever grateful to everyone who read and followed and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed and made my day.

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware.**

This story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>20. Quantum of Grace<strong>_

One night, not too many days after the disastrous Spring Pageant, Hawke was fast asleep at home in her bed. It was unseasonably warm and a soft breeze stirred the muslin curtain before the window left open to entice in some air. The hour was late, equidistant between midnight and daybreak and the night moonless and clear, spangled with stars that glimmered down on the sleeping city.

A sudden crash jolted Marian from her repose and she sprang upright, heart leaping into her throat and eyes sweeping the room before settling on the dressing table. Perfume leaked from shattered bottles, a thick mix of heady spices, light florals and zesty fruits slowly permeating the heavy air and her startled face was reflected in the mirror tenfold, overlaid with a spider's web of tiny fissures radiating out of a large, round crack in the centre of the glass. For a long moment she remained frozen in position, waiting, expecting some manner of follow up and then she noticed the invading object that having ricocheted off the mirror, had rolled to the centre of the room. Propelled into action, she threw off the covers to investigate.

The intruder turned out to be a medium-sized rock wrapped in a sheet of paper which she carefully unfolded and recognised with sinking dread to be Anders' manifesto. Had someone connected her to the mage underground? Was this a practical joke or sinister blackmail? All sorts of dark fears spewed from her imagination and in a panic she tried to recall the escape plan long ago devised were her freedom ever to come under threat.

"Hawke!" A muffled yell interrupted the train of her thought.

She glanced at the window and crawled towards it, flattening her body against the adjacent wall in order to peek out without giving herself away.

"Hawke!" It came again and she glimpsed the tow headed man under the window. Relief washed over her, followed smartly at the heels by annoyance.

"Maker's breath, Anders! what are you doing here? You destroyed my mirror!"

"Hawke! Thank the Maker! Quick, they're following us. Please, let me in." He replied, eyes wide and voice frantic.

She glanced at the corners of the alley, "...and so you led them here? _Anders_!"

"There's no time, please hurry!"

She glared at him. "The back door and make sure you aren't seen."

Minutes later she was opening the door to let Anders in. He trooped inside glancing over his shoulder and wrapped her up in his arms before she could react.

"I knew you would come through. There is no kinder heart in all of Kirkwall," he proclaimed into her hair.

Hawke extricated herself from his arms, barely biting back the tirade on her lips, when her eyes fell upon the person who had followed him in. "You brought someone with you?" she blurted out, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

The woman was dark with short hair and a cautious, haunted look in her eyes. Magic wafted off her in poorly controlled waves and she looked vaguely familiar. Hawke stepped away from Anders and took her in, gesturing at him for an explanation. She bristled in response and looked indignant but Marian was in no mood to spare her feelings, especially with tens of sovereigns worth of ruined perfumes seeping into her rug and a probable band of merry Templars on their way.

"This is Grace," said Anders stepping beside the woman and placing his arm around her shoulders. "You remember her, don't you, Hawke? Three years ago you helped her and her sisters escape Ser Karras with Thrask's help, from that cave along the Wounded Coast."

Hawke maintained her blank stare.

"Your companion killed Decimus, my _husband_," Grace cut in, her voice bitter and hard. She scowled at Marian accusingly.

A vivid picture of Fenris impaling the man to a scaffolding pillar flashed through her mind. "Oh! _That _Decimus - the blood mage?"

The woman's features twisted and she seemed about to snarl a response when Anders intervened. "But Grace and her sisters weren't. You helped them once and now Grace needs our help again-"

"I am going to regret asking how, aren't I?" Hawke probed reluctantly.

"Shelter her here, with you - your house is secure. There is a ship bound for Highever in three days, the Templars will not think to find her here."

Of all the foolish schemes Anders had proposed that she go along with, this one was utterly mad. "You can't be serious. My mother lives here, my brother is a _Templar_. I can't endanger them, this is pure folly!" Hawke shook her head emphatically, "I can't do this, I'm sorry." She leveled an angry glare at him. How ridiculous of him to demand this of her!

Grace clenched her teeth sullenly as if she had been expecting it all along whilst Anders confronted Hawke with his best pleading expression. "Hawke, please. She has nowhere else to go. She's known - there are Templars everywhere-"

His expression reminded her of the one the Mabari wore when he wanted roast mutton and cream - _no._ The truth was the expression reminded her of more. It reminded her that she had been unkind to him _sort of-_ Anders cared for her. When he looked at her his eyes glowed tenderly and she remembered his plaintive voice begging her not to toy with him. She had ignored his expression then, ignored the look in his eyes, convinced herself that he was being over-dramatic and then she had broken his heart.

In different circumstances where she had no further use of him, she might have avoided him, banished the memory of his hurt from her thoughts until it no longer pricked, but here and now that was an untenable solution. Instead she had to live with consequence and the guilt. It was the cost of having him in her life, of continuing to need him. She rubbed her forehead, suddenly weary and Anders reached for her, taking her hands and kissing her brow. His lips were soft and warm against her skin.

"I know I am unworthy of you but if you have ever felt any affection for me - Hawke, please - you have never been a part of a Circle. You cannot imagine what we must endure."

Hawke felt her resistance flounder. She sighed unhappily. "For the night, no more. I want her gone at dawn."

Anders shook his head. "Three days Hawke. We need three days. Please."

"Where else would I go?" Grace demanded wretchedly.

"No." Hawke became adamant. "I cannot agree to more. You can hide in the cellar. There is a passage through there to Darktown but you must leave in the morning. I cannot compromise this house or my family."

She ushered them both through the house and down into its bowels where a secret door tucked in behind a wine rack led further down. Stairs wound into the basement and it was down the spiral stairwell that she led Grace, Anders bringing up the rear.

Hawke could offer no amenities for her short stay except a meagre repast she grudgingly threw together consisting of cold meat from the larder and a mug of ale from the stock kept for the servants. She sat vigil the rest of the night, scurrying from window to window to watch the road, eyes peeled for any sign of Templars, their cold steel glinting in the starlight. Her nerves were frayed by the time the sun finally brightened the horizon and she could return to the basement to show Grace out. Anders dogged her steps, his honeyed gaze full of reproach.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," she conceded, holding open the trapdoor that exited into Darktown for Grace. "I'm fresh out of hospitality."

The woman met her eyes and said nothing, disappearing into the dark caverns below. Anders followed her out and Hawke seized his hand at the last moment. "Be careful. If you won't let me keep you locked up, you can't let anyone else either."

He looked at her with a smile, brushed a kiss across her fingers and melted into the darkness.

Hawke shut the trap door and climbed out. It was still early, the house was quiet and she could feel the press of fatigue as the adrenaline faded.

She was almost through the Main Hall, heading upstairs when the tranquil still was sundered by the loud and insistent report of what could only be a gauntlet on the front door.

"Open up!"

Hawke froze. She felt her heart sink; for a long moment she couldn't breathe and stood, clutching the wall for support. Her knees felt weak, a chill descended down her spine and all she could hear was the sound of her own heart thundering in her ears.

"By Order of the Knight-Commander, open up!"

Three distinct strikes of the knocker. Her visitor did not hesitate. They were not concerned about waking sleeping citizens or disturbing anyone within, they were invading her privacy by right. Hawke clutched her throat, willing herself to breathe - to dispel all signs of magic from herself, stripping away every shred of her power and sealing it away deep inside where no Templar would sense it.

"Open up! That's an order!" More pounding upon her door. She glanced up towards the passage to her mother's room praying she wouldn't stir.

Clenching her fists, she willed herself to the foyer, pausing before the mirror to glance at her reflection. She pinched her cheeks, teased some artful tousling into her hair, brushed off the lint and dust picked up in the cellar from her robes and loosened the sash around her waist so the neckline was generously parted.

Finally, she flung open the door and caught Ser Karras, fist raised midway to strike at the already beleaguered wood.

"Gentlemen!" she purred, batting her eyelashes sleepily and leaning as suggestively against the door as she could. Cold sweat trickled down her back but her smile was all honey and cinnamon. "Were you waiting long? I'm sorry, I wasn't decent."

Four of them stood on her stoop. Knight-Captain Cullen was present along with two other recruits she had never seen before. Karras was red-faced and angry, his features bunched up in a scowl that conveyed exactly what he thought of her. The boys did not deign to glance up at her face, their eyes caught somewhat lower. Cullen took in her disheveled appearance and cleared his throat. He was unfortunately ginger and as such suffered from the terrible tendency of his skin to reflect that damning shade at the slightest provocation.

"We have reason to believe this house is harbouring an escaped apostate." Karras pushed forward, thrusting out his chest.

She formed an O of surprise, "Here? Surely you jest. Why, there's only myself, my dear mother sleeping upstairs and our attendants within."

"The apostate known as Grace was sighted in Hightown not three hours past," Ser Karras continued, undeterred.

Hawke glanced at Cullen and caught him frowning a little at Karras. "Ser Cullen, how do you do? My brother speaks so highly of your chivalry." She paused to smile at him, placing her hand over his forearm. "I am sure the very last place the apostate Grace would choose to hide would be a Templar's family home, wouldn't you agree?"

Cullen smiled thinly at her, gently patting her hand before easing his arm away but he looked uncomfortable and turned to his subordinate. "Are you certain about this?"

The other man's lip quivered with anger, "Of course I'm certain! You helped her to escape once, Hawke. You helped them all escape! You are hiding her _here_, I know it. I demand to search this property!"

"I have always been a friend to the Templars - Ser Thrask, Ser Keran, Ser Emeric - they would all agree. Surely, you remember that awful business with those blood mages three years ago, Ser Cullen? Imagine the scandal if the _Rose_ link had ever been leaked to the public."

Cullen shifted and his frown deepened. "Is this truly necessary?" he asked the other Templar. "This is Carver's sister, you realise."

Hawke pressed her advantage before Karras could reply, "And I would invite you all in for breakfast but surely this Grace would make her escape whilst we were enjoying muffins, tea and good conversation. I really shouldn't keep you."

Knight-Captain Cullen seemed inclined to agree. He nodded briefly but Karras would have none of it. "She's hiding her, I _know _it!"

"You're welcome to look under my bed, Ser Karras - though there _are _more civil ways reach my bedroom." She smiled at him, an inviting smile with a razor's edge.

Karras flapped his lips, too indignant to reply and his face flushed crimson. One of the recruits grinned broadly at her tone and Hawke winked at him.

Cullen stepped forwards in case Karras exploded, and interjected quickly. "Where could she hide?"

Hawke pretended to consider and tapped her chin, "Oh, there is that old place right at the end of the Estates, north of the Chantry...it's rather dark and looks abandoned. If I were a foolish apostate, I might hole up there."

"Right, we'll take a look." Cullen grabbed Karras by the arm and withdrew. "Please, give my regards to your lady mother."

Karras shrugged him off, livid and fuming; the still grinning recruit eyed her as they turned around and marched off. She stood and waved with a bright smile until they were gone from sight, then slipped back inside the door and leaned against it, eventually letting herself slide down to the floor, knees too unsteady to support her weight.

That was the last she would see of Grace as a free woman. Less than two days later she was apprehended by Ser Karras whilst hiding in Darktown and the _Golden Opportunity_ sailed to Highever without her. Instead she was dragged, kicking and screaming, onto a small boat bound for the Gallows.

Anders stormed into the library the same night with Bodahn scurrying in front of him to give warning and Leandra giving chase.

"Anders," Hawke set down her glass of wine and placed a bookmark in the fashion periodical she was perusing. "What a pleasant surprise."

"She's been taken!" he announced by way of a greeting. "Those bastard Templars - they caught her."

"Grace? Oh, Maker," she blanched, looking away as the woman's face floated through her mind. "I'm so sorry."

"Should you be entertaining callers at this hour, Marian?" Leandra interrupted, folding her hands together and frowning crossly at Anders. It was the most her mother had said to her all day.

"It's all right, Mother. This is important. You can go to bed if you like." Hawke stood, slid her book back into the shelf and walked over to usher her on her way. Bodahn was standing ready for instruction as well and she said to him, "bring some us some of that new port, won't you? Anders could use a little drink."

"How did it happen?" she asked, once they were alone. Anders slumped in the leather sofa, his chin in his hands. There were dark rings under his eyes and his usually warm expression was cold. It made him look older. She bit her lip and sat down next to him and when there was no response, placed her hand on his thigh.

"That Templar who's had it in for her, Karras, he raided Darktown with his men in the afternoon. They found her. I barely made it out myself. I don't want to think about what they'll be doing to her now."

"I'm sorry." She stroked his leg.

"Are you?" He pinned her with an accusation in his eyes so intense it made her flinch and she had a sudden appreciation of just how upset he was. There was a litany of reproaches in his expression. Some were old - _We could have saved Karl if you had hurried_, others were newer - _Why don't you love me, why won't you let me live with you? _and then there was the most recent. She swallowed thickly and held her tongue as he seized her hand. "If you had allowed Grace to stay here, she would have been on that ship, sailing free."

"Karras came looking for her after you left. He knocked on my door." She shook her head, still unnerved by the memory days later. "Him and Cullen and two others."

Anders said nothing for a moment. "What did they do? How did you deal with them?"

"I put them off. Cullen didn't let him search the house out of respect for my brother. They left."

"Obviously, why would they fluster Carver and any of your Order friends? That's why I wanted to put her up here. I know how they work."

"They are not my friends. What if Cullen hadn't been there- if they had insisted on searching and found you?" She tried to slip her hand from his grasp but he held on tightly.

"We were hiding in your _secret basement, _Hawke." Anders reminded her pointedly. "It was barely a risk to you but Grace was alone, frightened, in danger and youthrew her out." His knuckles were white around her wrist. "You could have taken that little risk, you could have saved her from the Templars."

_I'm not her keeper,_ thought Hawke but immediately felt ashamed. He was right. The risk to her personally had been small. No one knew of the hidden basement room. The Templars would not have insisted on a search, certainly not with Carver in their ranks and Leandra present in the house. If it had come down to it she could have demanded a warrant. Karras would have had to walk all the way back to the Gallows to obtain one from Meredith and then would have had to get Aveline to counter-sign. She could have wound him up in so much red tape it would have taken him hours unravel himself and Grace and Anders could have escaped easily.

"I'm sorry," she said aloud, her stomach twisting.

Anders met her eyes briefly and glanced away before she could smile. He sighed and placed her hand against his face, kissing her knuckles. "I know you are. And I know you'll try to make up for it when you can."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Reviews are like Pringles, no one can have just one!**


	24. 21 Measure of Reprieve

**Author's Note**

Many thanks and gift-wrapped angels to **strangegibbon,** my friend and beta without whom this tale would have disappeared into the aether several times over. I am ever grateful to everyone who read and followed and a very special thanks to everyone who reviewed and made my day and abject apologies for the delay!

The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to **Bioware.**

This story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>21. Measure of Reprieve<strong>_

Marian was in the solar carefully teasing free a piece of toast from the butter applied on top of it whilst Leandra stirred more sugar in her tea. It was the first day of the following week and as per the latest norm to have become entrenched in the household there was minimal conversation between the two, their interactions for weeks now consisting of pointed silence and Leandra's angry glances any time Marian attempted to engage her in dialogue.

"Could you pass me the marmalade, Mother?" Marian might say with unnecessary cheer.

And Leandra would raise her eyebrows, toss her head contemptuously and push the dish carelessly in her direction.

It was during a similar domestic impasse that Bodahn interrupted that morning, knocking on the open door, clearing his throat, puffing out his chest and announcing with a freshly acquired shine to his pomposity, that there was "a letter from Saemus Dumar of the Viscount's Keep, Messere."

The note was entirely unexpected and had arrived at nine sharp in the morning, delivered to the Hawke estate by a liveried courier in purple and gold bearing the falcon crest of the Dumar household. Bodahn received him at the door with all the dignified calm he could muster before turning around and thundering through the house in search of the addressee.

Hawke stopped midway in the business of conveying the piece of toast only slightly brushed with marmalade to her mouth but it was Leandra who responded first. "From the Keep? For us? Who brought it?"

Bodahn dipped his head and transferred the salver to one hand. With the hand thus freed he raised the thick vellum envelope and squinted at the writing on the back as if he had not already read it on the way.

"It is addressed to 'Serah Marian Hawke', Madam." He set it down again and added, "delivered just now by special courier. He awaits a reply."

Leandra snatched it off the salver before Hawke had finished wiping her hands and turned it around to inspect the seal. "It bears the Dumar seal," she confirmed and quickly slid her butter knife under it. "Here, Marian. Read quickly- what does it say?"

Hawke could have stolen a smile at her mother's temporary abandonment of the silent treatment had she not been too excited herself to notice.

"Let me see." She took the envelope from her mother and slipped out the note. After a brief scan, she read out the critical portion, "He writes, 'I would very much like to avail myself of your kind invitation and call upon your hospitality three days hence at five in the afternoon for tea'."

"Oh Marian!" Leandra exclaimed, "Maker be praised, he wants to visit! You must accept right away. What a wonderful thing this is!"

"Bodahn, respond at once- say we'll be delighted to receive his Lordship and then get Orana in here." Hawke turned to look at her mother as Bodahn scampered off, already mentally ransacking her closet for the appropriate outfit. Leandra stood up and paced in excitement, surveying the morning room cursorily.

"Oh dear, there is so much to do!" she fretted, "and we have just three days! We'll seat him in the parlour - oh... but that carpet needs washing - do you think it could be done in time? And the curtains too... and all the silver will have to be polished, and we need new china, that old set won't do at all. Marian dear, won't you take me down to visit Hubert's later today for a new tea set?"

Marian leaned forward, chin in her hands and smiled widely, pleased that they were speaking at last. "Of course, Mother."

"Don't do that, Marian. You don't want dark spots on your elbows with summer just around the bend!" It was almost as if Hawke was no longer a ruined commodity and any blemishes on her elbows were once more lamentable. She folded her arms at once to save wear on the now precious things while Leandra continued. "We need a new carpet in the foyer, Marian. We can't have the Viscount's son traipsing over that ragged thing Gamlen brought."

"Then we'll stop by that new rug shop on the way to Hubert's." Hawke replied, still smiling.

One hundred and twenty minutes to the appointed hour three days later, there were fresh cut flowers on every horizontal surface between the front door and the parlour, their perfume thick upon the air. All the curtains were drawn back and the windows (each pane washed and glinting) opened to give the house as light and airy a feel as possible. The chandelier in the Great Hall was scrubbed and polished to gleaming lustre and boasted fresh candles in every sconce. It was currently resting in all its wrought iron glory on the floor while Orana carefully padded around the contraption with a brass candle lighter, setting all the many wicks to flame. Leandra stood over her shoulder fussing and the normally serene elvish girl looked positively frazzled. Her mother's social anxiety had fallen upon them all like a swarm of ravening locusts, swooping through the house and leaving their nerves a ruined husk.

"Don't drip candle wax on my hardwood, Orana," she cringed as the girl reached for a particularly inaccessible candle in the graduated concentric rings constituting the monstrosity.

"Of course, Milady," Orana promised, but as she applied the lighter the candle sputtered at the flame and spat a wad of wax that bubbled and immediately set into the freshly varnished floor. Leandra emitted a keening wail as the flushing girl frantically dabbed at it with a piece of dusting cloth babbling profuse apologies.

"Ruined! Ruined! That's going to leave a stain - oh Maker have mercy on my poor nerves - what am I going to do with you? _Marian_!"

Hawke entered the Hall at just that moment, carrying an elegant porcelain vase full of bright yellow tulips, setting down on the small knick knack table right next to the parlour door. "There, I think that's all of them." She stepped back to regard the arrangement with satisfaction and turned around to look at Orana and her mother. "Don't worry about it, Mother. Sandal will get it out. I'm wondering about those cakes though, I think I smelled something burning in the kitchen."

"Oh no, the shortcake!" Leandra gasped and leapt around Orana, heading towards the kitchens. Marian watched her leave and sighed, brushing a loose tendril of hair from her eyes.

"Finish lighting the candles and then tell Sandal to see to that stain." She held a finger to a candle that had become extinguished and coaxed it back to life. It flickered briefly and promptly died again. Hawke shrugged. "Oh well, you'll have to get it the old fashioned way. Hurry up, Orana, my hair will take an hour to do."

With ten minutes remaining Bodahn approached the front entrance in a deep red coat with gleaming silver buttons that was only a few hours old, and assumed his position. He smoothed the corner of the brand new runner in the foyer and gave his shoes one final rub against the back of his grey trousers. Five minutes later, Leandra came hurrying down the stairs, prim in a white dress with pale blue lilies embroidered along all the edges and a matching blue belt. She threw an approving look at Bodahn and disappeared into the kitchen to add the final touches to her strawberry shortcake.

Finally, a few minutes after the hall clock finished striking five on the hour, there came the sound of a carriage drawing up in the porch, wheels and hooves crunching over the freshly laid gravel. The coachman struck the knocker and after waiting an appropriate interval, Bodahn swung open the door with a flourish to admit Saemus Dumar into the Hawke Estate for the very first time.

"Good afternoon, is Serah Hawke within? I believe I am expected." He cast a tentative glance around, taking in his surroundings and hoping for a familiar face.

Bodahn bowed graciously. "Of course, Messere. May I take your cloak and hat?" The heir to Kirkwall's viscounty relinquished the items to the dwarf who in turn relinquished them into the care of the new coat rack Leandra had placed beside the entrance. "Follow me, please." He led the way with a new spring in his waddling gait.

Saemus was halfway across the Great Hall when Hawke chose that moment to make her appearance. "Saemus!" She leaned over the mezzanine balustrade and smiled, radiant in the soft glow of the chandelier. "How lovely to have you visit at last."

Layers of ruffles trimmed the plunging neckline of her bright yellow cotton crepe dress, soft Orlesian chiffon billowing daintily about her ankles as she descended the stairs. Her hair was woven with strings of Andraste's Grace and put up in a bun at her nape.

"Serah Hawke," he replied visibly relieved at the sight of her. "I'm glad you could receive me at such short notice." He glanced at the chandelier and the abundance of flowers around the room.

"Come, this way," Hawke gestured towards the parlour and led him inside, "Bodahn, please inform Mother that our guest is here."

Saemus settled down on the chair and adjusted himself a little self-consciously, "You have a very nice home," he admitted and the slight surprise which accompanied the observation caused Hawke's eyebrows to climb proportionately. "And you look nice too," he added, with a quick glance at her before his attention was drawn to a small bronze box on the side table. "Oh, how beautiful! This is Qunari craftmanship, isn't it?"

Hawke who had had been preening over the compliment, felt her smile dim a little. She sat down and nodded, "Uh... yes, I acquired that from a travelling merchant on the Wounded Coast. Quite a find, wouldn't you say?" The statement was a bit of an embellishment - she had actually looted it off the corpse of a slain smuggler at the last minute after Fenris had insisted it was valuable. She thought it was rather hideous herself and was not entirely certain how it had landed on that end table.

"It is so refreshing to find someone with the same interest in that culture as myself." He admired the object, turning it over in his hands and sliding out the lid several times before setting it back. "Most people simply dismiss them as savages." He shook his head in distaste.

"Nonsense! Fereldans are not savages at all. I lived among them for years." Leandra broke in loudly, entering the room and they both looked up as she conducted Orana inside with the tea trolley. The maid too had been outfitted in a new black uniform and frilly white apron. Hawke had found the pattern in an imported book and now regarded the end result with satisfied approval.

"Good afternoon, Lady Amell." Saemus made to stand but Leandra waved him back down cheerfully.

"No, no, dear, please sit down. Can I offer you some lemonade? The afternoons are getting almost warm." She poured some out and handed it to him before he could answer. "How's your esteemed father?" she continued. Leandra was a hostess of the school of thought that guests should never be burdened with the charge of conversation.

"He's well, thank you. I'll convey your regard." Saemus took a sip. "Serah Hawke and I were discussing the Qunari, not Fereldans in fact."

Leandra's expression soured at once, a pair of creases sliding into her forehead. She opened her mouth in order to retract the endorsement, surprise raising her pitch. "The Qunari-"

"-could have found no better patron in Kirkwall than Saemus, isn't that right?" Hawke interjected before she could finish.

"Indeed, such an admirably sophisticated people, it is such a pity more people do not see that. I try to learn as much of their ways as I can."

Leandra continued to reel, "But they are so... well, certainly quite different from us Andrastians..." she finally settled. "What would the Maker think of that, I wonder. They don't even revere our Gracious Lady."

"If I am lost to the Maker for refusing to hate someone who finds beauty in the 'other', well, perhaps the Maker is the one who is not worthy of me." Saemus declared confidently.

Leandra, shocked beyond words, glanced at Hawke. Marian proffered her a bolstering smile and a glass. "Lemonade, Mother?"

"I was about to bring up the reason for my visit," Saemus continued. "One of my associates at the Compound brought a matter to my attention and in light of your previous service I hoped you would consider taking it up on my behalf." He addressed Hawke. "I believe you used to run a mercenary outfit some years back."

"Oh, no no no. Marian isn't into such things at all," said Leandra, shaking her head. "Won't you try some of that shortcake? Marian likes to bake," she gestured at the tea spread with shortcake, muffins and all manner of exotic pastry, most of which Hawke could scarcely name much less conjure out of an oven. She burst into giggles while her mother glared.

Saemus looked from one to the other in confusion.

"I'm sorry, what my mother meant was that I might know some people in the business." She wondered what her friends would think of Saemus' analysis of their little 'adventure club' as Varric called it.

"Excellent, then you can help. After Ashaad - my... _friend_ was killed, they were hesitant to send a man out alone but it seems that a whole patrol sent to finish the mapping of the Wounded Coast has now gone missing."

He set down his empty glass and helped himself to a pastry. Marian quickly scrambled to serve him while Leandra cringed at this abuse of protocol but he waved her off, determined to do it himself.

"So, my associate will await you at ten outside the Compound with the details tomorrow. The Qunari are never late, Serah. I would be very grateful if you could endeavour not to keep him waiting."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Drop me a line, it's lovely to hear from you and you and _especially_ you!**


	25. 22 Prime Suspect

**Author's Note**

A galactic core sized dollop of thanks to my friend and beta **strangegibbon** who has been the Kirk to my Spock. Without her this enterprise would've beached a long, long, long time ago. Many many thanks to all the readers who've been following and especially those who've taken the time to comment or review, you make my day each time. This chapter has been long in coming so without further ado-

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This Story is rated T but may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><strong><em>22. Prime Suspect<em>**

"You're absolutely sure about this?" Donnic repeated for the umpteenth time, no more certain about the plan than he had been an hour ago when it was first proposed. His brow was wadded up tight and his forelocks and ample whiskers glistened with perspiration.

"Of course, she'll be fine. This is hardly the first time she's played at being bait - ask Fenris." Aveline shot back, equally agitated but for different reasons. She was worried about all the things that could wrong; anxious that what they were about to do fell in the grey area beyond the bounds of law and concerned that they may be infringing upon a man's innocence in a scheme that was beginning to feel more and more harebrained the closer they drew to executing it.

"This is different, what happened at the ball... she hasn't seen him since that _incident _and if this makes her uncomfortable, it's not right," Donnic insisted bullishly.

Fenris, who had been observing the exchange with a keenness belied by the way in which he leaned, foot casually braced against the wall, pointed a sharp look at the pair and then flicked his eyes at Hawke to study her reaction.

In front of the mirror she stood, tucking flowers into her Orlesian style chignon. They were that overpowering variety and made the whole of his living room reek a strange combination of years old dust and roses. A faint hint of colour crept into her pale skin and the muscles of her shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Which incident?" he asked, intrigued by these subtle changes.

"She's bedded the man!" Aveline threw up her hands and glowered at Donnic. "How much more comfortable do you want her to get?"

"Ah, I'm sorry I asked." said Fenris darkly, jerking his gaze away as his mouth twisted.

"Don't fret it, Broody. _The Social Pages_ called it an epic bust - worst debut since Urthemeil at Denerim in '30." Varric spoke up beside him. "Frankly, I think the jury was rigged. My favourite was drunk Correen Penhart at the Summer Ball two years ago after she crashed into the food service and landed in the punch fountain with the triple layer cake for a hat. Good times."

"Passing out in a punch fountain does sound like it would appeal to you." Fenris fidgeted, crossing his arms, " And I'm not _fretting_ _it_."

"Then put on a smile," the dwarf grinned, "even rhymes with denial."

Hawke turned around and waved her hands impatiently, "I'm perfectly fine and all you fishwives can stop gossiping about me any time now."

"You make it hard, Hawke - try going a week without dramatically hooking up with someone and we might have a chance."

"Enough," Aveline cut in curtly, stepping up to the centre of the room and commanding everyone like the captain she was. "Hawke, you will take the front door out, the rest of us will slip out the back. Unless there are questions let's just get this over with."

Not much later, Hawke waited before the elegant doorcase of the the DuPuis mansion while somewhere within a reverberating gong announced her presence. It was a grand and stately home, once the pride and joy of Lord Guylian who had been exiled during the time of Perin Threnhold. It had remained vacant for years until recently handed over in a surreptitious and uncontested auction to Seneschal Bran's younger brother, who in turn had leased it out to its current occupant. A decidedly summery breeze rustled through the quiet streets of Hightown and the excited chirping of romantically inclined crickets filled the evening air. It was the end of the week and most homes were either empty, their inhabitants out visiting or hosting the noisy parties of people too preoccupied to notice any untoward goings-on.

The sound of hurried movement became audible behind the door and it swung open to reveal a very frazzled looking Gascard DuPuis. Darks shadows circled his eyes, contrasting vividly against a unhealthy pallor. The long silky hair that had so fascinated Hawke at the Ball was pulled back in an untidy blond ponytail. His shirt was rumpled, speckled with a fine spray of red and unsurprisingly he looked none too happy to see her.

"Serah Hawke," he said, the charmingly Orlesian _mademoiselle_ forgotten. "What are you doing here?"

At least the accent had been genuine, Hawke reflected putting on a smile. "I've been thinking of you," she crooned gliding past him, ignoring the deliberate lack of invitation. "In fact, I have been able to think of little else." Was it bad form to use one lover's words on another? The idea amused her and she glanced over her shoulder as she swayed into the large hall, bright smiles and fluttering lashes disguising a quick survey of the interior. She noted the grand staircase that swept up on either side of the chamber and the servant's corridor that ran behind it, her attention lingering on the passage for any sign of the rest of the party.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Serah. I wasn't expecting company." Gascard took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "Perhaps, you will allow me one of those... ah!.. _rain checks_ as you call them, yes?"

The sensation of his lips against her skin was so disconcertingly familiar that Hawke faltered for a moment, a trickle of unease prickling at the back of her neck. She shook it off and continued, tilting her head to a side and allowing her mouth to fall into a forlorn pout. "Do you mean you've forgotten about our rendezvous today?"

Gascard stared in confusion.

"You don't remember inviting me today? At Chantry, you asked me to come visit you," she lied steadily. "Is everything well?"

"I... I am afraid I cannot recall-" He stuttered, taken aback. "Yes, it is - I have been a bit preoccupied. Please forgive me. Perhaps I can urge you to visit another day, today is a very bad time for me."

"What do you mean you can't recall?" Hawke raised the pitch of her voice incredulously. "We made plans. Are you feeling all right? Have you seen a healer?" She gripped his hand and drew him toward the door. "Come on then, let's take you to one."

"No! No Circle!" He wrenched his hand free and swung around; Hawke stole a glance at the passages behind him. "Look Serah, I appreciate your concern, but-"

"Is that wine on your shirt? Have you been drinking?" She interrupted with a scowl, sniffing to detect any traces of alcohol on his breath when a distinct but muffled thud resounded from somewhere in the back of the house.

"What was that?" Gascard twisted around and craned his neck in its direction. "Did you hear something?"

Marian placed a hand around his neck, turning his head so he was forced to look at her. "I didn't hear anything, Gascard."

"But I swear there was a sound. I should go investigate, I beg your forgiveness- perhaps-"

"There was no sound." She affected an expression of pained sympathy. "Step outside for some air with me, Gascard." Her hands slid down his shoulders, fingers circling his wrists, "it'll clear your head. How long have you been cooped up inside the house?"

"I'm fine. I think you ought to leave, Serah," he insisted, prodding her towards the door but Hawke remained adamant.

"Are you- ?" she framed his head with her palms, "you look quite pale-" and then gasped softly. "Oh Maker! Gascard, you're burning up."

"I am not..._burning up_," he slapped a hand to his forehead to judge for himself and shook her off. "I don't know what you are up about Serah but_ please_, excuse me."

Hawke suddenly snapped back and stared expectantly at the door, the move so abrupt that DuPuis was forced to stop and look at her in bafflement. Finally, when no explanation was forthcoming, he spoke. "Well? What is it now?"

"Aren't you going to get the door?" She asked him pointedly.

"What?"

"The door? Aren't you going to get it? The doorbell just rang."

Gascard took a step back, shaking his head. "There was no doorbell. I heard nothing."

Hawke let her mouth fall open a little and turned her head to look at the door, then back at him. "There it is again."

"What?" He raked his hands through his hair. "I did not hear anything."

"_Gascard, _you poor_-_ I'll get the door. Come with me." She assured him in a kind voice, taking his arm and leading him to the entrance. He allowed himself to follow her, his eyes wide in confusion.

Hawke unbolted the heavy door and dragged it open.

Orana waited outside, hands clasped timidly in front of her. Neither gave any indication of knowing the other. Instead she piped up nervously, "Pardon me Messeres, for disturbing you. May I borrow wine glasses for my master?" She pointed at Fenris' mansion across the street.

Gascard stared at the girl, and Hawke thought his eyes might spring out of his skull. "Did you ring the doorbell?"

"Yes, Messere. I'm sorry. We've run out of wine glasses."

"I didn't hear the doorbell."

"I rang twice, Ser."

"That house you said?" he pointed at Fenris' house. "It's empty. No one lives there. It's been lying vacant for three years. _No one_ lives there!" He turned to Hawke, who had one hand on his forearm and the other stroking his back sympathetically. "Is this some kind of joke? Are you going to tell me that that house has been occupied for three years and I did not notice somehow?"

Hawke shook her head and made to speak but Orana responded first. "Oh no, Messere. My Master just returned from Tevinter a week ago. We're still settling in."

"Take a walk with me, Gascard. To clear your head." Hawke interjected tenderly.

DuPuis relented and for a few minutes ambled beside her to the end of the street until they reached the gaudy home that Bartrand had purchased after the expedition. Varric had taken over the administration of the estate after the elder Tethras was committed to asylum and was renovating in anticipation of new tenants. It stood shrouded with scaffolding beams stuck out from beneath the sheets of tarp and canvas at oddly sinister angles.

They had hardly made it to the end of the street when Gascard reached the end of his tether. "I really must go back, I was in the middle of something," he said twisting around to glance at his house. Hawke sighed, hoping the little ruse had bought Aveline enough time. Pulling his arm free, he added, "I thank you for your concern. I'll be seeing you soon," and started up the street at a shuffle that was just shy of an all out run.

"Gascard, wait!" Hawke went after him but he broke into a sprint that she could not hope to match. Instead, she closed her eyes and yanked open her connection to the Fade. There was a yelp as he tripped on some broken tiles and crashed to the ground, buying her a few more minutes. "Oh Maker, are you all right?" she exclaimed running after him.

There was blood all over his scraped knees. He stared at it in horror and looked up at Hawke. "You! You are jinxing me." He cried, scrambling to his feet and darted towards his home, streaking past the handsome townhouses and ducking inside the door, slamming it shut before Hawke could catch up.

When she finally made it inside, Gascard was nowhere to be seen. Hawke froze - the main hall had been ransacked, everywhere there were broken bits and pieces and an ugly fracture ran right through the middle of the large mirror on the north wall. The Veil felt flimsy as if something foul had savaged it and left it torn and bleeding. Swallowing her misgivings, she crept forward, peering into the cavernous hallways of the wings on either side of the staircase for any sign of her friends or Gascard before taking the stairs to the upper floor.

As Hawke approached the private area, a soft whimper drifted through the empty corridors. Steeling her nerves she followed the sound until it brought her to an elaborate door frame that she assumed led to the master suite and pressed her ears to the door to listen. The whimper resolved into frightened weeping and DuPuis' sharply barked orders cutting through in midst of it, incited her to barge in.

Inside the chamber, he was struggling with a mousey-haired woman who broke into frantic pleas. "Help me! Please! He's gone mad!"

Gascard looked up, still clutching the woman by her arms, "it's you!" he exclaimed. The woman sagged and started to weep, "Shit. I... know what this looks like, but I didn't hurt her"!

A brief interlude later Gascard was gone.

In his stead, Hawke found herself preparing to defend the indefensible and surmised how often in their fairly long association, she had been on the receiving end of a certain elf's rage.

"You did _what?"_ Fenris enunciated each syllable sharply and Hawke filled a deep breath in order to defend herself.

He had yelled at her angrily, snarled at her violently and cursed her liberally in Tevinter yet despite each one of their loud and raucous disagreements, she knew that he retained a measure of confidence in her that he did not have in Anders or Merrill, both of whom he considered beyond redemption. He had thought her a _woman so capable_ once and pronounced her _not weak_ on another occasion and Hawke knew that both were rare and costly concessions. Though she would never admit it she had held onto these brusque words longer than any superfluous compliment. It was also a fact that watching him turn on her passionately in the only way he would allow himself was so thrilling she could seldom resist an opportunity to rile him.

She might admit that it was a tad foolhardy of her to so provoke a man capable of ending her in a hot blue flash of unleashed fury (and she had Hadriana's example as a warning against relying on some scruple to stay his hand) but she felt well assured that so long as she avoided that bracket of Lost Causes to which Anders had been consigned, Fenris would temper his wrath.

The reason for her current trepidation therefore were the shuddering convulsions wracking the trust on which their compromise so delicately rested.

"We allow blood mages to walk _freely_ now? So they can _murder_ with impunity?" He clenched his glowing fist around one of the tall slim and rather damning vials of blood he and Donnic had discovered in the basement and snarled, pitching it at the wall behind Marian where it shattered into dust.

Hawke winced, snapping around to stare at the livid bloodstain on the wall. "Calm down, Fenris. I can explain."

He glared at her, face twisted and eyes flashing and when he suddenly reached towards her again she instinctively ducked to avoid another projectile. That made him pause, a look passed over his face and he growled loudly in the harsh syllables of his native tongue, sweeping away to the top of the room to work off some steam. Aveline eyed Donnic who followed with a nod.

"We found more than enough evidence to implicate him." Aveline said, sweeping her arm over the material piled in the middle of the room. She raised the stack of correspondence between Gascard and some Tevinter contraband supplier. "The front hall was booby-trapped with shades. Varric and I had to fight them off before we could reach the West Wing. Fenris tells me you need blood to work this kind of magic."

Hawke sighed. "I know-"

"And These are missives between him and First Enchanter Raddick of the Starkhaven Circle. He kept nosing after their mages." She continued with another stack.

"And there's a chest full of women's clothes in the room across the hall. Unless pretty boy likes to play dress up, I'm thinking that means something." Varric added.

Aveline crossed her arms and frowned at Hawke. "Why didn't you wait for us before letting him go?"

"Because he _isn't_ the murderer. He's just following a trail. He has used blood magic, but only to find the _real_ killer."

"And you know this how?" Fenris strode back, and advanced upon her. Aveline moved to intercept but Hawke cut in front of her, ready to defend but he cut her off, his next words vicious as poisoned barbs. "- because he's your _lover_?

"How dare you!" Marian exploded, colour blazing her cheeks. "This is why I didn't wait for you - any of you. You wouldn't have listened! He lost his _sister _to the Killer!"

"I have stood beside you in every ill-conceived scheme, but there is a line, Hawke," Fenris replied, his voice barely a hiss and sharp as his sword. He reached to seize her arm and hesitated when she flinched. "This is on your head." He shoved past her and walked out.

There was a long moment of silence in which everyone avoided looking at each other. Finally Aveline spoke. "I want your report on my desk in the morning and you need to inform Emeric. I sure as the Void don't want to be the one to tell him how his prime suspect got away."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Don't be a stranger! Jot down your thoughts in the box below. XOXO**


	26. 23 Small Comfort

**Author's Note**

I am grateful to **strangegibbon** my friend and beta for the continued support and help which means everything to me. You are _my_ pr0n-loving angel! My thanks goes out to everything who added this story and author to their alerts and favourites and especially those to take the time to comment. It makes my day. So without further ado-

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to BioWare.

This story is rated T but in pursuit of the plot may on occasion trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>23. Small Comfort<strong>_

When Marian turned into the corner off Chantry Lane on the way home, it was to the sight of Hightown Square rippling with excitement. City Guards milled about with grave, attentive faces, their mail glinting in the evening light and pedestrians chattered in scattered knots gaping upon the spectacle. As she moved through the crowd, it became apparent that the focus of all this attention was the Hawke Estate.

The reason for this was the gleaming buggy parked right in front. Matched white horses pawed the gravel, gracefully tossing their heads, while footmen stood stiffly beside, hands clasped behind their backs and heads proudly high. Hardly able to keep the thrill off her face, Hawke hurried past the entourage and entered the house.

A panicked Bodahn skidded to a stop, only barely avoiding a collision with her. There was a film of perspiration on his face and he was positively vibrating with nervous energy. "Madam! Thank the Maker you are returned!" He cried and then with a smidgen more composure declared, "His Grace, Lord Saemus is in attendance." The relief at having that off his chest was palpable as if carrying the knowledge had been a physical burden.

"How long has been he been here?" asked Hawke quickly reviewing her appearance in the hall mirror, securing escaped locks of hair and smoothing down her cotton dress.

"17 minutes now, Madam." He reported without a glance at the hall clock.

Hawke grinned and with a skip in her step headed towards where her mother's voice, high pitched and strained drifted out of the parlour.

"Oh, look! Marian is home." Leandra exclaimed the moment she entered.

Saemus looked up in response. "Good evening, Serah," he said. "I came unannounced but your mother was kind enough to receive me"

"You are welcome at any time." Hawke replied congenially.

He looked uncertain for a moment and then took her hands, leaning forward to lay a brief, awkward kiss on her cheek. Pleasantly surprised, Marian glanced at her mother, who looked predictably gleeful.

Everyone took their seats, and Saemus continued, "I was returning from the Compound. The Arishok has very kindly agreed to allow me to study Qun."

At that Leandra's smile morphed into a grimace. Hawke gave her a sidelong smirk and commented, "That should prove most interesting."

"It is!" He agreed enthusiastically. "The language is unlike anything else spoken southwards. There are some similarities to Tevinter to my untrained ear - this opportunity is truly exciting."

"I did not see you at Chantry this week. Were you well, dear?" Leandra interjected.

The excitement in Saemus' face dimmed and he shifted in his chair. "I... was," he hesitated then seemingly making up his mind pressed ahead with more confidence, "I was otherwise occupied, actually."

Leandra gaped wordlessly, yanking the conversation to a grinding stop. Hawke glared at her in utter exasperation, wracking her brain for something say as the moment stretched uncomfortably. In the end it was Saemus who managed to recover first. "As I was saying, I had the occasion to meet the Ashaad and he assured me that your efforts with regard to their lost patrol have been commended to the Arishok."

"Is that a good thing, dear?" piped Leandra not the least bit deterred before Hawke had a chance to reply.

"Indeed. Serah Hawke has every reason to be proud of such an honour."

"It was nothing really," Hawke shrugged. "The poor scouts were dead when I arrived."

"Still, you did more than the City Guard or the Templars who should have prevented an Abomination rampaging just outside the city in the first place." He insisted, indignant.

For another half hour, Saemus sat in the parlour chatting and to his credit gave little evidence of any impatience to leave. Yet even so, as soon as the hall clock struck the hour, he stood and brushed down his tunic.

Hawke sprang to her feet followed by a crestfallen Leandra. "Are you leaving already? Won't you stay and have dinner with us?"

"I must get home, Lady Amell. Thank you for your company." Saemus looked at Hawke. "There was one other matter I wished to discuss with you."

"Of course. I'm all ears."

"There is a small event at Lord Friedrich's next week. He intends to announce the engagement of his eldest." He said plainly, sparing the briefest glance. "It would please me if you agreed to accompany me to this affair," he told the wall behind her.

A gleeful squawk escaped from Leandra somewhere to the side and Hawke smiled brightly. "Of course Saemus, it would be my honour." And the smile never wavered as she escorted the future Viscount to the door.

Marian could not help but think back to that first time. Herself standing before Saemus who was every inch regal, despite the dust of the road; distant and unattainable - the highest of Kirkwall's gentry, towering above her in station, like a figure stepped out of a dream. And now as she watched his carriage roll away, his face pale and white in the night, it was her other self that seemed as remote as a dream. Leandra's tales of growing up in luxury that had been drummed into her since childhood, felt more real than the past she had actually lived. Liberated from her unsophisticated beginnings, she was ennobled - elevated above everyone she had ever known. The shame and failure that had so affected her scant hours ago lost all potency. That hubris so common to all, which imbues the certainty that one is special, singled out for greatness was vindicated and in that moment, when the universe itself was out to reward her, nothing seemed impossible.

The days that followed brimmed with optimism and purpose. The incident at the DuPuis Mansion regressed to the very back of her mind, buried under a flurry of planning for her first public appearance at the future Viscount's side. There were clothes to make ready and fresh flowers to arrange for so significant an occasion. Most rewarding of all, Leandra was at last extricated from her black mood, and the house reverberated once more with her happy fuss and excitement.

Inevitable therefore was that when the day dawned at last, it would demand an exacting tax.

Later that very evening when Hawke was on her way home from the soiree, sat in a gilded carriage, wrapped up in her the best of finery, she felt no joy on the success of her first appearance in the elitist of Kirkwall's drawing rooms. Instead, she blundered through it all in a daze.

No matter how she leaned in the seat, trying to make herself comfortable, she felt every jolt as the wheels rolled over the miles to her house. Saemus sat across from her and when their eyes met he responded with a polite flick of his mouth. She found herself noting how the ornately etched buttons of his shirt reflected every lantern they passed and the simple repeatability of that little detail made her restless, just as the motion made her nauseous and she peered around her companion to judge how much longer the ride would take.

Saemus noticed and twisted around to share the view. He turned back and asked, "is anything the matter?"

"Oh no, of course not. I'm a little tired, that's all. It was a wonderful evening, thank you." The words spilled out of her mouth automatically as did the smile that lifted her cheeks.

Her mood however, remained wretched.

They turned onto the wide tree lined boulevard that bisected the Estates and at the end of which stood the abandoned mansion that Fenris had claimed for his own. Her stomach twisted and Marian stared at the dark, shabby facade until the vehicle turned again leaving the Estates behind.

"Ghyslain de Carrac has done quite well for himself." Saemus reflected after a few more silent minutes. "This match will favour him greatly.

Hawke tore her attention from her own thoughts and focused on him, "Yes, indeed. Miss Friedrich is no spring chicken but still very classy, more so than him." Saemus' brow lifted slightly but at that moment, Marian felt too weary to care. Instead, she continued. "I never met his first wife - Ninette. She was murdered by the White Lily Killer. I found her remains- her fingerbones to be precise- I gathered everything in a bag and returned it to him."

Saemus gaped at her.

The carriage moved under the archway and emerged on the other side. The wash of light from the glittering stained-glass tower of the Chantry made his cuff-links flash brilliantly and Marian could not shake her gaze. The glinting metal had thrown her back into that lowtown alley and her mind was filled with the horrible vision of Ser Emeric sprawled on the ground, his polished silverite chest plate catching the light. Bile rose at the memory and she swallowed thickly, fighting down the nausea. If someone had told her ten days ago, that she would be so affected by the death of a Templar she would have laughed in disbelief but Emeric was a decent man, killed in the pursuit of justice for his charges and he had died because he had placed his trust in her word.

Had she been wrong to believe in Gascard? Even now, though sick with remorse, her heart rejected the possibility but that conviction had extracted too high a price. And not just Emeric.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her mind insisting on replaying the dreadful day in living colour.

Shades darted around the body on the ground, draining Emeric of every remnant of life. The air crackled with the sharp signature of ozone and exploded, violently tossing them backwards. In the midst of it, Fenris charged, greatsword gleaming, veins of light pulsing and the wraiths fell liquidly around him. Hawke dropped to her knees beside the dead man.

She remembered thinking that in the books when someone dies you run your hand gently over their face and their eyes close. It didn't happen like that in real life. She couldn't get his vacant eyes to close at all.

Moira came running right behind them. It was good that the place was already shimmering with magical backwash because she hadn't the presence of mind to erase the trace of it from herself.

"Some mage sent that thing here to kill him, why would anyone-" Her eyes widened in horror as realisation sank deep, "Oh Maker. The murderer. Emeric was right. He was getting too close."

Fenris padded near, his sword crusted with the crystallising remains of the Fade Spirits and his mouth set in a grim line. Moira continued talking, "He suspected a man named Gascard DuPuis, did he do this?"

Hawke paid her no attention, instead she shrank from the hard, moss coloured glare that pinned her down, buckling under the weight of it. There was an ultimatum lurking in its depths. She rose unsteadily. Could she condemn Gascard? His face was before her, she remembered the euphoria of dancing with him, the relief at seeing him when Deaver Bran refused her and his eyes when he spoke of his sister. That cinched it. Would she have acted differently in his place? No, she would have done the same for Bethany. There was nothing she would not have done for Bethany and so much she could never speak of that she had done already.

"I can't be certain of anything," she hedged.

"Then we need to find him. Do you know where he is?" Moira pressed.

Fenris' face was cold. "No, he didn't tell me where he was going," she lied, averting her gaze. She had no need to look at him to know his reaction. His lips curled, his eyes narrowed, and he turned away, tossing his head in contempt.

"There was a woman named Alessa." Hawke added hastily, as he began to walk away. "DuPuis said that she would be the Killer's next victim. The City Guard can track her down. It might lead to something."

"If you learn anything else, please let me know." Moira was saying, but Hawke did not respond.

She ran after Fenris.

"Fenris, stop. I can't keep up." She slid her fingers through his elbow, her chest hurt.

He wrenched himself free and seized her roughly, pushing her against the wall and knocking the air from her lungs. She couldn't breathe.

Caging her in with his arms, he hung his head and fought to gather himself. Lyrium pulsed and licked over his skin, it sang to her blood. Her heart raced, and she wondered if the lack of air was making her delirious, filling her with an abrupt urge to touch his hair, his face, anything at all.

"No." He growled, angry green eyes boring into her. "_I_ can't keep up with _you_."

She met his gaze. It was icy in a way she did not recognise. The coldness slid down her spine and seeped into her. She touched his cheek, brushed her fingers over the solidity of him and pressed her lips and herself against him with a desperation borne of this nameless fear, pouring herself into him - and he responded, hands cradling her head, fingers tangling in the tight ringlets of her hair. His mouth moved against hers with an urgency that made her breathless, pressing hot, insistent stamps into her lips, her neck, even the valley of her breasts until she was wild, panting and clawing at his belt, tugging at his clothes, hitching her thighs around his waist and climbing him, heedless of the resistance that crept into him or of the coil of muscle when he pushed her back. She wanted to take him here and now, bury him inside her, capture him, overwhelm him, _keep_ him.

He shoved her back into the wall and she whimpered at the sudden loss of the heat of him, strained to merge again but he held her pinned. She couldn't fight him and as the _want_ dissolved, all that was left was bitter frustration at her own foolish yearning and the prickle of tears.

"When you helped me," He said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I thought you were different, and I trusted you." She started to shake her head and he clapped a hand over her mouth. "_He _trusted you." He forced her to look at the stiffening corpse, fingers wrapped under her jaw. The sharp edges of his gauntlet pressed into her skin and she wondered, if those claws pinched through her flesh would she even know when her severed body slid to the ground. Her heart thundered in her ears and felt as if it would burst from her chest.

"You don't know that Gascard killed him." She argued, clamping her eyes shut.

"Neither do you!" He bellowed. "And yet your arrogance will not let you admit it."

The outburst startled them both and he let her go at once, stepping away, curling his empty fists. More than anger, there was disappointment in the set of his shoulders. "Ask Varric to find you another sword arm," He said quietly, bitterly, "I am done."

He turned around and left.

"Well here we are," Saemus' voice suddenly broke through her reverie and Hawke smiled, returning to the present. She resisted the instinct to leap out and inside the house, to shut herself in. Instead she remained in place, recalling the pointed instructions of her mother who had been tutoring her in protocol and Marian had hunkered down to learn. She wanted to do everything right this time.

A footman opened the the door and she waited for Saemus to descend - she must never be seen to take precedence over him, nor should she expect him to condescend to help her - she must look to the footman.

The retainer rattled on her front door and Bodahn promptly unlocked and opened it. Again, she almost barged inside but held herself in check. Apparently, the Viscount's son had the superior right to enter her her house ahead of her, which he did casually. She could not remember if she ought to have invited him perhaps Bodahn's invitation was sufficient?

There were too many thoughts firing off in her mind, and she struggled to focus, "May I offer you something to drink, Saemus?" Her fingers clenched tightly in the soft pleats of the pale gold evening gown as she asked with a smile, always a smile.

"If you have some good wine, perhaps." He replied, crowding the foyer, his hands clasped behind his back as he glanced around the hall making her feel the house was under inspection.

"We may retire to the library then," she nodded in the direction of that room before hastily appending, "if you like."

"Oh, very much." He acquiesced and allowed her to lead him. There was only a weak flame dancing in the grate, having gotten too warm for a roaring fire before which to sit and indulge thoughts as dark as hers.

Saemus stood in front of the mantle and admired the Tevinter statue frowning down from its impressive height as Hawke moved to the liquor cabinet and withdrew two wine glasses. With a melancholy sigh, she uncorked the bottle of Tevinter wine and poured.

They sipped in silence.

"A lovely vintage." He pronounced like a verdict and Hawke smiled. Of course it was. He set down the empty glass and approached her. "Well, I'm quite satisfied this evening turned out so successfully."

"Thank you for inviting me." She replied smoothly.

He stepped closer, his fingers brushed against her and slid around her waist. "Right, well..." and then there was the warm press of his too soft lips against her own. He lingered for an appropriate moment and just as formally withdrew. "Right. So, there are some more functions I would like you to attend with me. I will instruct my aide to send you the itinerary for the rest of the month. Please keep your evenings free."

After he had gone, Hawke returned to the silent library and sank into the comforting embrace of rich leather and even richer whiskey.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**Do drop a line!**


	27. 24 A Long Summer's Promise

**Author's Note**

My thanks goes out to **strangegibbon**, my friend and co-conspirator. Here's wishing her 40 days and nights of raining angels. My utmost gratitude to every one who commented and those who added myself or this story to their favourites or alerts. Every little measure of acknowledgement is an encouragement for which I can't thank you all enough.

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated **T** but in pursuit of the plot may on occasion trespass through **M**.

* * *

><p><em><strong>24. A Long Summer's Promise<br>**_

The rains had begun to dry up as the spring wound down in Kirkwall. Brilliant azure skies unmarked by cloud yawned over the city as the wind changed direction, blowing onshore to whistle through the narrow alleys and sweep sooty smog from the foundries into Hightown. The stony city basked in the sun and though neither Isabela nor Fenris ever agreed that Kirkwall was at all warm, Hawke always found the summer drought far removed from the cold wet climes of Ferelden to which she was accustomed.

It was picnic season in Kirkwall, marked by the frequent exodus of Hightown out of the city, heading north perhaps where the open heath was windswept and fragrant with wild shrub and the Vimmarks purple against the horizon. Some forayed south where a select few beaches dotted the wounded coast and the Waking Sea lapped at the shore in gentle summer waves or even west where the Kirk frayed into its distributaries and groves of cypress shivered between the river's brackish veins.

In the wet months the Hanged Man would be crowded, packed full of smallfolk eager for gossip, thin gruel and cheap alcohol to wile away the miseries that the lean months compounded but when Hawke picked her way into the tavern one bright morning, she found only a few patrons inside. Nelly was leaning over the only occupied table, giggling excessively with two truant foundry workers while Corff watched the exchange from the counter with a scowl.

"Is this a bad time? I hope you're not expecting a City Guard raid or something." She remarked, peering around the empty hall.

"Serah Hawke." Corff looked up in surprise, "Aren't you out with the others?"

A furrow dropped between her brows. "No, I came looking for Varric. Isn't he around?"

"Nobody's around," he said. "It's the big season opener today!"

"Season opener?" Hawke's frown deepened. "Of what?"

"Why, the races of course!" Corff looked at her as if she had just called King Alistair a pretender to the throne.

One would never guess that Marian Hawke had been raised on a farm, such was her aversion to trudging around in the muck no matter how scenic the countryside and the scowl on her face when Corff reiterated that both Varric and Isabela had indeed gone off on a _picnic _was the very soul of distaste.

Nevertheless, the matter that had brought her to Lowtown in the balmy weather was important enough that she set her mind to some trudging. Having decided to brave the stony, rutted road outside town, she had worked herself into a perfectly indignant mood. But as the air turned refreshing and cool the moment the stuffy city was left behind, she was forced to admit, with grudging relief, that an excursion was a singularly good way to spend the day.

When Fereldans had first flooded the city, the Merchant's Guild had been quick to capitalise on the Mabaris that arrived with them and as soon as summer rolled around took over the meadow where town fairs were usually held and rolled out a perfectly serviceable racing track. Originally they had also thrown up a very nice, lavish pavilion for the gentry but Hightown would never stoop so low as to be caught indulging in such oafishly Fereldan revelry as Mabari racing. So while the Gold Pavilion never did become fashionable with the elite, the rest of Kirkwall and the rather populous diaspora had embraced the event with gusto.

The grand spectacle was well underway by the time Hawke arrived at the Green. Flags and pennants fluttered on poles all around the ground, bearing diagrams and captions that glorified the fastest canine heroes and the guilds that sponsored them. A huge crowd had gathered to watch and its mighty roar surged across the heath, punctuated by beating drums and the race master's piercing bullhorn. Even the merry notes of a fiddler or two drifted in and out of hearing amidst the screaming of the crowd.

There was a thick line of people hanging over the railings that separated the apron from the tracks; these were the most enthusiastic of the betters, bookies and followers. Others lounged around the green banks that surrounded the track in small parties roughly grouped according to the racers they supported. Some waved flyers and banners, others sported hats. A few umbrellas in team colours could be seen struck into the ground and the pervading mood was electric and very festive.

Hawke entered the stands and wondered, hands on hips, how best to locate Varric in a mass of people twice his height. She spotted the bookie stands and made her way through the crowd, searching amongst the mass of punters crowding under the tote boards emblazoned with the odds but strangely enough there was no sign of him nor any of Isabela.

She weaved through the crowd amassed by the railing, staring after every dwarf she encountered. The announcer's voice, weak and tinny over the distance called out something she couldn't catch and the crowd erupted deafeningly. People alternately cheered and jeered as favourites and rivals entered the track. It was impossible to catch names and after a while the press of so many bodies, most of them unwashed, became unbearable. Hawke wandered away from the stands towards the green banks, hoping to run into someone she recognised or at least find a cool place to sit down.

In the open the wind was strong and tugged at the delicate Antivan muslin of her melon pink summer dress and the straw hat secured under her chin by a matching ribbon. It had not rained in weeks so the ground was dry and her silk sandals remained unmarred as she ambled through knots of people, her march intermittently interrupted by roving bands of rambunctious children. After a time, she realised that the folk on the green largely consisted of families.

Frowning she turned towards the stands again. The likelihood of stumbling into Varric or Isabela among them was low if she knew her friends at all. Her best bet had been to look for them amongst the serious betting crowd. Her eyes fell on a line of concession stalls on the far end of the stands that she had overlooked earlier and she reasoned that if the two could not be found gambling then the only other possibility was that they were getting drunk. She turned around to head back.

Suddenly a wayward frisbee to the back of her head rudely halted her progress and Hawke spun around in indignation, glowering for all she was worth at the giggling urchins that scattered away in all directions. She tossed the frisbee after them and watched it dash inelegantly against a stony protrusion. With a low growl of frustration, she proceeded after them eager to impart a piece of her mind and, resisting the urge to spell them rooted to the spot.

The ground dipped and rose and she crested the incline, short of breath and patience both when to her great bafflement she found herself confronted by the implausible sight of Fenris holding a laden picnic basket.

Hawke stopped and stared, shook her head and stared some more, at a complete loss for words. She blinked and when the vision did not dissipate, she looked around. There was Varric wriggling in a fold up chair, studying the racing line up through a scope. Aveline and Isabela, in a rare moment of comity had grasped either end of a sheet of chequered cheesecloth and were spreading it on the ground. Anders was grappling with a large rainbow coloured umbrella and Merrill stood giggling happily, her eyes half on the race and half on the laying out of the picnic.

"Andraste's wet knickers!" Hawke exclaimed, marching into their midst. "What in the Maker's name is going on here?"

Everyone looked up, surprise registering on each face along with a variety of other shades. Fenris met her gaze haughtily, or as haughtily as he could holding that ridiculous basket, and she flushed with the memory of their falling out in that Lowtown alley, glad her face was shadowed by millinery. Aveline sat back and pursed her lips, still sullen about her handling of the investigation, her spine as rigid as ever. Isabela threw her liquid gaze upon her and shrugged indifferently. Anders looked guilty and remorseful and Varric adjusted himself uncomfortably in the chair.

"Hawke, you came!" It was Merrill who spoke first and it difficult to meet her eye with how she had been avoiding her since their regrettable union all those weeks ago. She smiled thinly, tipping a shoulder noncommittally and took a few steps forward, glancing around at the picnic arrangement. There was food, bottles of ale and wine and it slowly dawned upon Marian that this was no spontaneous plan hastily thrown together at the last minute, from which she had been inadvertently omitted.

"Not like I was invited or anything." she answered bitingly, "You're all having a picnic - without me."

"It's my birthday! Isabela said we should celebrate, well not really- I mean the birthday, I wasn't born today or anything. It's the anniversary, sort of, of the day I took the Vallaslin so it's a bit like a birthday," Merrill rambled. "I thought that maybe you had somewhere else to be."

"Isabela planned this?" She looked incredulously at her best friend and occasional lover.

"Don't look at me, this was all his idea." Isabela finished laying the sheet and pointed at Varric.

Varric lowered his scope, "Daisy was going around gatecrashing the qualifiers in Darktown so we brought her here, no need to get your smalls in a wad."

"It wasn't on purpose, I was following that adorable little bunny!" Merrill beamed, "It was so cute."

Fenris stepped forward and dumped the basket in the middle of the spread as if it were searing his hand. Marian glared at him accusingly, he was hardly Merrill's greatest admirer yet here he was. "I was lured here on false pretences." He said. "There are no slavers."

"Oh, but there is cake." Isabela winked at him. She rose and patted Merrill on the head. "It's called a lure, kitten. You are a terribly mopey drunk, it was cramping my style. We had to get you out of the Hanged Man, I live there you know."

Aveline shot to her feet. "You have her drinking now?"

"It wasn't me," Isabela drawled. "You need to cast your judge-y little net over there." She gave Hawke a pointed look.

"What? I certainly didn't encourage it." Hawke defended herself hotly while a kernel of guilt niggled beneath her skin.

"It wasn't anyone's fault, I can make my own choices too. I've just been a bit gloomy lately," Merrill interjected looking forlornly at Hawke for a moment then cheered up. "Come on, it's about to start!" She skipped off to join Varric, leaving Hawke awkwardly fielding accusatory glares from Isabela and Aveline both.

"What else have you done that I don't know about?" Aveline crossed her arms over her chest and if Hawke hadn't felt so persecuted she might have noted the irony of her rallying beside Isabela of all people. Even Fenris seemed interested in her answer and Marian shied from the scrutiny. She didn't relish having to defend herself from yet another debacle certain to lower her in his esteem.

"Not 'what'," Isabela placed her hands on her hips, "- 'who' is what you want to know about."

It took Aveline a moment to grasp the subtle flick of the head she threw in Merrill's direction and her face turned as red as her hair, "_Merrill_? What were you thinking!" she hissed, palming her forehead.

"She _wasn't_, that's the point." Isabela crossed her arms, mimicking Aveline's earlier pose.

"It was a mistake, I admit. I was drunk. I barely recall anything but Maker, you make it sound like I ravished her!" She stepped back fuming, "and you're hardly one to talk."

"What I do is only skin deep, you like to burrow under," Isabela retorted. "You're a heartworm, not giving a whit what you leave behind after your merry little buffet."

Fenris watched the exchange thoughtfully, his ghostly white hair gleaming in the sunlight and his mouth set in grim agreement. Isabela met his eyes briefly. Hawke felt her cheeks warm, felt the sting in her eyes. She could not understand Isabela's bitter rage.

"I don't have to listen to this." She stormed off, pausing by the picnic basket to rifle for a drink, something stiff, not caring that it was only morning. There was nothing in it but ale. All the emotions that had been building crashed over her together - guilt, anger, indignation and the sting of exclusion, and she felt profoundly unhappy.

Sitting alone in the grass, she watched the track as the race exploded into action and the hounds streaked off to the roar of the crowd. _No matter what I do I can't come out ahead._

"Well, I can't speak for the rest of them but I'm very glad you're here." There was a swoosh as Anders managed to erect and open the umbrella, casting a circle of shade over her. He sat down and placed a kiss on her temple, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her close.

"Anders." He smiled and she relented, leaning into him as she sipped.

"I have just the news to cheer you up: I've found a way for you to make up for what happened with Grace."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

Drop a line, would love to hear from you!


	28. 25 Height of Courtesy

**Author's Note  
><strong>

Thank you for joining in again. I'm ever grateful to my friend and beta **strangegibbon** for proofing, editing, motivating and just overall making sure the chapters keep getting pushed out the door! A load of obliviously hot paladins trucking her way in gratitude. I also cannot thank enough everyone who followed, added this story or myself to their alerts and favourites and especially those who took a moment to let me have feedback. It's you who keep me going!

The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to **BioWare**.

This story is rated T but may on occasion, in pursuit of the plot trespass through M.

* * *

><p><em><strong>25. Height of Courtesy<strong>_

Inky waves surged and crashed upon the shale, the slick stone gleaming in the faint starlight. Hawke slipped and cursed, clutching Anders tighter. Every few paces her shoes lost traction on loose rocks and vivid images of dashing her head or succumbing to a watery death flashed through her mind. The solid mass of the Circle Tower thrust out like a gigantic fist behind her, impossibly huge and impenetrable while in front of her the sea stretched to the horizon, a black chasm rising to swallow her whole. Brine was sharp on her tongue and she could feel the sting of it in her eyes. Her teeth chattered, fingers icy as the wind whipped and plastered drenched clothes to her body.

"This is by far the worse night I have ever spent alone with an attractive man."

Anders gave a trickle of laughter which was carried off by the wind. He was nice, she reassured herself. _Nice and comfortable_. He made a grab for her waist. "Anders, no!" She teetered and tumbled down several jagged boulders, scrabbling for purchase and landing gracelessly on the seat of her once pristine worsted robes.

Anders leapt after her, landing moments later on his feet. He knelt down to examine her injuries. "Maker, I'm so sorry," he said, turning over her hands - palms raw and streaked with blood, knuckles grazed and nails chipped. "Let me," he insisted as she dismayed over her nails, aches and bruises blooming all over. Her knees stung, her clothes were ripped but the worst injury of all was to her pride.

"I'm fine." She grit her teeth, heart pounding. "You're an oaf," she snatched her hands from him, anger replacing the fading shock.

"I'm sorry. I'll fix you up." He started to pull things from his pack and she broke, eyes welling up. It wasn't her hands or her knees, it wasn't her nails, it was a wound that ran deeper. It was her frayed nerves and her shaking hands and the black fear in the pit of her belly. It was because she didn't trust Anders and it wasn't enough that he could heal her afterwards, it was that she didn't want to be hurt at all. _Fenris wouldn't have let me fall_. The traitorous thought formed unbidden and she hated herself for thinking it. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around herself and heaved dry sobs of anger and frustration.

"Hawke, no…" Anders gathered her in his arms, "Maker, don't cry."

It was mortifying to consider how perilously low she had stooped, despairing over an extinguished flame like some naif. "I'm not crying!" She bit out defiantly, scrambling to her feet. "Let's just finish this." Her face was wet because of the spray not tears over a man - an _elf_.

She glared at the slick jut of rock down which she had fallen and grit her teeth, ignoring the protesting curls of pain in her injured fingers as she pulled herself up over the jagged precipice until she felt solid ground firm beneath her feet. Already, she felt better.

Around the base of the Gallows Tower snaked the treacherous path, terminating at a forgotten storm drain and through it they stole to a cordoned off outhouse in the Courtyard that had fallen into ruin. Mistress Selby was waiting for them inside, having made it considerably quicker due to her familiarity with the route. Without a word, they moved like ghosts through the decrepit shell, ducking beneath collapsed beams and crumbling walls until they reached a shuttered window.

Selby tapped thrice upon it in a specific tattoo and they waited. A cold draught slithered past and Hawke shivered. A moment later a single tap came muffled from within and Mistress Selby wrenched the shutters open to reveal Grace staring sullenly from behind the metal bars that stood between her and freedom.

Anders quickly adhered himself to the window, "Are you all right? Did those bastards hurt you?"

Her eyes landed on Hawke, cold, furious and brimming with hate. "Why is _she_ here?"

"She wants to help." said Anders.

Grace scoffed, "_Help_? _Her? _Like she _helped_ me or my husband? Get her away, I don't want her to lead Templars to my cousin."

Anders countered, "Hawke knows people, Grace. We need her."

"She can aid us." Selby reassured.

"Traitor." Grace spat at Hawke. "Did you tell them you let us go? Why else would they keep hunting for so long?" she clung to the metal bars, eyes flashing. "Three years living on the run, living in the woods, eating carrion and _still_ they caught us. Decimus was right, we should have died rather than submit."

"You brought Templars straight to my house. I covered for you." Hawke sallied back, incensed. "It's not myfault you were stupid enough to run right into Karras."

"Can we stop fighting please?" Anders opened his pack and started rooting through it. "All of us are here for Marie. Arguing won't help rescue her."

"No one knows that area better you do, where could the bandits have taken Terrie's sister?" Mistress Selby demanded.

Grace crossed her arms and sulked. "I don't trust her."

Anders stood, pressing a parcel through the bars into her hands. "Look, we brought a gift. For you, to make your life easier."

There was spindleweed in the package - analgesic, not to mention vaguely narcotic and therefore valuable, contraband. Hawke knew this because she had supplied it and the irony that she had to bribe Grace for the privilege of being allowed to assist was not lost on her. She sulked, head roiling with disgust as Grace made a show of accepting it with reluctance and then explained how to find the cave system where bandits were holding her cousin's sister-in-law for ransom.

"This was a good thing you did here," began Selby once Grace had disappeared into the shadows and they readied to depart. "You have coin, position, powerful friends - you can influence things. You have a duty, all of us do, but those who can make a difference also have the responsibility to do so."

"I am doing this for Anders." Hawke replied curtly.

Selby stopped, "No, not for Anders; you owe _us_. Because without men and women like us, you would not have been born to freedom and Malcolm Hawke would have died in that Tower, alone and unmourned."

* * *

><p>"How did you meet Father?"<p>

It had been nearly a week since Hawke had accompanied Anders to rescue Marie from the bandits and yet Mistress Selby's parting words continued to weigh on her mind. Perhaps there was something in the assertions of the terse, unfriendly woman who had seen dozens of mages from the Gallows to freedom. Invariably, her mind wandered back to the letters between her father and Maurevar Carver - a templar who had risen to the role she so steadfastly refused. What reasons could he have had to help a mage escape? And yet he had. Endangered life and limb for another man's liberty. There was a lesson in it to be sure. Or perhaps a warning. Tobrius did say the man was dead after all.

It was enough to make her long for the simpler days. Before Kirkwall her responsibilities were clear. There was Bethany, Carver and Mother and the understanding that when her father could not bear the cost of protecting the family she would have to step in and she had. Silently shouldering the burden a little more every year and neither her mother nor the twins ever realised anything had changed until he was no more and Marian was left with his legacy.

Bethany was gone, Carver was estranged and now there was only Mother, yet the responsibility had not diminished. Bodahn and Sandal, Orana, Merrill and all the others; she had reached out to them in desperation and the tangle of debts both owed and due had evolved into friendships, some every bit as complicated as the legal contracts binding her with her business partners.

And there were expectations of her: Mother wanted the life she had given up to raise her, Anders wanted her aid for the Cause, Aveline insisted she owed a duty to Kirkwall, Saemus wished to recruit her for the Qunari, Isabela pressed her to care for Merrill, even Fenris; he wanted something more from her too-

"It was at an Orlesian style Ball." Leandra interrupted, voice clipped. She set down the shoe she had been inspecting, her back stiffened and her face became guarded as they often did whenever the subject of her elopement was brought up.

Marian looked down at the extravagantly embellished pump on her right foot and compared it with the one on the left, tilting her head in deep consideration over which one suited her more. She stood up and walked to the mirror, clasping the dress she was to wear to her chest and admiring the effect. "Which one do you prefer, Mother?"

"The first one. That one doesn't look reliable." Leandra gave her a critical look "You should wear sensible shoes. It isn't a social call."

"Why not? Maybe the Viscount would welcome a little distraction during some stodgy budget meeting. This one practically _begs_ for some naughty footsie!"

"Marian!" Leandra gasped and Hawke grinned.

The clerk waiting on them suppressed a snicker and Marian winked at the elf, reminded of a slightly less grave looking Orana. Maybe the former slave would be more content working for the most exclusive _artisan_ (as he liked to call himself) of footwear in Kirkwall too. It was certainly an exquisitely appointed salon and the volume of business would put her under no undue stress. It was only because Hawke had been introduced to him at Lady Friedrich's salon that he had deigned her worthy to be entertained at all and surreptitious glances at some of the price tags here had made even her hesitate more than once.

"So you met him at a Masquerade Ball and by the end of the summer the _three_ of us were halfway to Ferelden - how romantic. Did he dress up as a dashing Chevalier and claim your heart?"

Leandra's brow crinkled at the slight infusion of sarcasm, "We were married by then." Hawke smiled, amused by her mother's defensiveness.

"Of course you were, I wouldn't suggest otherwise." She admired the shoes and the clothes in the mirror, twirled around a little. "Ah, cruel love. What fools you make of us!"

"You are very lucky to have this second chance, most ruined girls never do. I thought our hopes were dashed forever." Leandra reminded her with pursed lips, "Your grandmother used to say of marriage: a garden blooms but once in spring but a field tilled dawn to dusk yields harvests rich that sustain through harshest winter."

"Pearls of wisdom, indeed." Hawke glanced at her mother's reflection in the mirror, at her tight, drawn face and knew she grappled with not only the remorse of her youthful indiscretion but the guilt of having it at all. A bitter old resentment flickered momentarily in her heart. "He loved you, you know. 'Til the end. That last night, after you had gone to bed, he said to me - 'tell your mother I love her more today than ever before but still less than I will tomorrow' - then he closed his eyes."

She watched. Leandra's face crumpled up just a little before she dabbed her eyes muttering, "Oh Maker," softly. It was cruel of her to twist the knife, she knew and regretted it immediately yet there was a satisfaction in it that was almost addicting.

"I'll take these." Hawke told the clerk, feeling a bit sick at her own actions and the amount of money she had just agreed to part with for the most impractical pair of shoes she had ever owned. _All for a good cause, _she reassured herself with a sigh. _Here I am, Grandmother, tilling away._

It was an unusually hot day when Hawke arrived at the Keep, summer well and truly enveloping the city with not a cloud in the sky and a sprinkling of soot on every step of the Viscount's Way. Two janitors armed with brooms were sweeping their way down, beads of sweat rolling off their tapered ears and they looked at Hawke curiously as she teetered up the stairs on the thin red stilt-like heels that had cost a minor fortune. It was the latest fantastic trend that had captured the imagination of Val Royeaux and the _Monsieur_ Vivier had assured her that she would be the first to debut the style in Kirkwall. She stood taller, _felt_ taller, chest forward, and when she walked, her hips swung seductively. Of course it demanded the right clothes to complement and Marian had settled on a bold style with a raised hem. Leandra had objected, citing canons of decency and when that failed, fashion. But Hawke assured her once the Empress Celene style caught on, everyone's skirts would follow suit.

Floating through the Halls in a pale gold morning dress paired with her outrageous new shoes in bronze and gold, she was the instant centre of attention as she mingled with the courtiers in attendance. Women regarded her with envy, a few even gambling their pride to ask questions, and young men watched, intrigued.

Fewer people dared to be contemptuous ever since Saemus had taken a shine to her, and she was grateful she had taken his advice to invest more in her wardrobe.

When she entered the Viscount's office, Marlowe Dumar was seated behind his writing desk, a grand affair of dark mahogany and intricate carving that had sat in the room longer than Kirkwall had been independent of Orlesian occupation. Seneschal Bran stood at his right shoulder, jabbing his finger into a dossier laid out on his desk.

"But the Compound was never meant to be permanent," he was arguing. "There are concerns that the Qunari influence is no longer contained." He trailed off as Hawke entered and they both looked up, Bran momentarily rendered speechless before the surprise vanished behind a scowling mask.

"Was it ever?" The Viscount retorted, pushing away from his desk and pacing. "Kirkwall has tension enough between Templar and Mage but these Qunari, they sit like Gargoyles waiting for Maker knows what and everyone goes mad around them. Nearly four years I've stood between fanatics and now this..."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Hawke glided forward. She had no idea what the Viscount wanted of her, but she had the sudden and unpleasant foreboding that it would be nothing welcome.

Marlowe Dumar stood and frowned. Hawke inclined her head casually. He wasn't very tall or broad but he carried himself with a certain dignified officiousness, as if he could make up for the meanness of his breeding by a show of competence. Leandra had spared no occasion ever since the arrival of the summon to mention that Aristide Amell had once been favoured over Marlowe for the seat. What would her grandfather have been like behind that desk? There had been a portrait of him in the house once but Uncle Gamlen had lost it in the foreclosure and it no doubt now hung in some shady nook in the Keep, gathering dust. Perhaps her mother would like to have it. She decided to look into the possibility.

Bran gave her a sidelong glare as he walked out of the office and the Viscount waited, arms crossed and face shadowed, until they were both alone. "Meredith at my throat, Orsino at my heels and a city scared of heretical giants." He shook his head and looked at Hawke in appraisal.

Hawke resisted the temptation to shrug. It was true that there had been rioting in the Docks but it had been but a mote of dust on her canvas. Varric and Fenris talked of such matters over cards but when she did visit The Hanged Man, an instance that had grown infrequent since the races, she found the raunchy ramblings of the resident drunk poet far more entertaining. Hawke gave what she hoped was an encouraging nod.

"Balance is maintained because the Qunari ask for nothing. Even the space in Lowtown was a gift to contain them."

Hawke wished she had been asked to sit down, her feet beginning to protest her choice of footwear. She shifted her weight impatiently until the Viscount turned to regard her. It was a stern enough glare that she was reminded of her schoolmistress.

"But now the Arishok has asked for you - by name." He paused to gauge her reaction, his inflection implying that this had surprised him. "What did you do?"

Had he been procrastinating all this time, hoping the Arishok would relent and deal with him instead until sending for her could no longer be put off, she wondered. She returned his scrutiny with what she hoped was casual indifference.

"I have a bit of a reputation, you know. It gets around."

The Viscount scowled and shook his head, "It makes no sense- and it doesn't matter. I just need them quiet." He turned around and seated himself.

"You and I have had no dealings but you have made this city your home and it needs you."

Hawke knew what he meant. He was reminding her of who she was or rather who she was not - anyone of import - and that she enjoyed her status at his pleasure. She wondered if her grandfather had lorded over him once in the same fashion.

"Speak to the Arishok, give him what he needs to keep the peace."

It was a strange feeling to arrive at the Qunari compound without any of _her_ people. Aveline had paperwork to attend and when she stopped by the Hanged Man earlier, Isabela had suddenly (and pointedly) remembered somewhere else she needed to be. Even Varric was uncharacteristically away at a Merchant's Guild meeting. It was partially her own fault for neglecting to inform any of them in advance but lately a blanket of frost had settled on her friendships. _Sod them,_ she tossed her head with a flick of indignation. For years she had embraced everyone with nary a breath of judgement and if none of them could reciprocate that now, perhaps it was just as well. She didn't need anyone. Besides, her involvement with Saemus, as Leandra reiterated every day, would tolerate no further indiscretion.

On the only prior occasion she had approached the Arishok, Fenris had been at her right hand. She shook off the thought quickly before it could crystallise into longing, she had no business with regret. It was futile: a weakness when she ought to be strong. The carriage stopped and she disembarked, smoothing down the more sensible outfit she'd exchanged for the meeting and adjusting her hat before glancing back inside over her shoulder.

"Good luck, Serah." Saemus peered out the window at her. He had insisted on accompanying and excitement wafted off him in waves, it took all his his effort to appear unruffled. "The Arishok values directness, treat plainly with him. Perhaps, it would be best if you did not jest at all." Hawke nodded, peeved. She didn't need anyone to tell her what to do. "I shall wait for you outside." He assured her. She nodded again and turned around before he could offer more advice.

The Qunari Compound was boxed in on all sides. The eastern wall was formed of an unbroken line of warehouses; the southern perimeter just happened to be the towering Kirkwall Excise and Customs Office while the north face was a sheer cliff separating Lowtown from the Docks. The western side lined up with the road but a stucco boundary wall cordoned it off, growing higher each year the compound persisted.

It had started life as a simple fence to demarcate the land grant but over the years evolved into a security feature and then the monstrosity that presently bore a disturbing likeness to a prison facade. Only a single point of entry or exit cut into the solid frame of the enclosure and through it Hawke strode warily inside.

The Qunari standing outside the gate checked her advance with a scowl, strange alien eyes narrowed in study. His contempt was a living thing, slithering and coiling around his legs, hissing as she drew near, baring sharp dagger-teeth. He loomed over her, a tower of stony muscle and corded sinew. There was nothing inviting about him and she wondered if the slate coloured skin felt as wintry to the touch as it looked. Broad stripes the shade of blood, stretched and rippled across the vast undulating expanse of bare chest and Hawke had to exert to tear her eyes, mesmerised by the promise of raw strength.

Scolding herself to focus, she raised her chin and summoned all the authoritativeness at her command despite feeling diminutive by comparison. "Marian Hawke. The Arishok sent me a personal invitation so go on, let him know I'm here so he can stop wringing his hands. " The giant's eyes glinted furiously at her tone. She met his glare and continued flippantly, "And I hope you all have tea laid out, it's simply _barbaric_ to talk about politics without crumpets."

"It'll be interesting to see if you die." The guard responded mirthlessly.

A short while later, Marian hurried out of the Compound quite tea-less and thoroughly unimpressed with what the Arishok termed courtesy. She scanned the crowded street for the carriage and spotted it parked by the curb at the very end. She lifted her skirts and hopped across a fetid looking puddle.

"How did it go?" Saemus accosted her as soon as she climbed inside, his eyes glowing in excitement.

Hawke opened her mouth to complain about Qunari hospitality but considering her audience thought better of it, "I will need men, lots of them - inform your father. The city is in mortal danger."

* * *

><p>Do drop a line!<p> 


End file.
